No Perfect Hero, page 24
And Tara’s in heaven, kicking her feet on the little swing dangling from the low-hanging branch of a small but ancient gnarled oak. It was probably here even before the house.
It’s so brilliant, so picturesque, and the dimming light of the sunset does nothing to dampen it.
I swear I could paint here for years and never capture it all, but part of me wants to try.
Right now, though, I’m content to sit on the little padded bench next to the pond and listen to Tara’s laughter as she swings higher and higher, kicking her feet.
Next to me, Ms. Wilma watches too, her hands folded in her lap with a courtly grace I’ve noticed Tara’s starting to emulate lately. “She’s a darling girl, isn’t she?” she says fondly. “You must be so proud.”
“I am,” I answer. “I’m just her aunt, but...ya know.”
“Nonsense, dear. There’s no such thing as just an aunt. Aunts are the mothers we wish we had when the ones we do have are being just a little unfair. They’re our best friends, our heroes, our confidantes, and the women we often want to grow up to be.”
I glance at her, lingering on the remote, warm look in her eyes. “Sounds like you had an aunt you idolized?”
“Oh, yes. My Aunt Nicolette. She was quite a fancy lady. A child of the Paris high life. She held these great balls that Gatsby would've envied, dressed up all in lace and entertaining in the finest hotels in New York.”
I blink. “You’re not from Heart’s Edge?”
“No, dear.” She flutters one slim hand to her throat, and that’s when I realize there’s a little old-fashioned silver locket nestled against the lace throat of her dress, so old it’s been worn into a perfect polish from years of loving handling. “My George came from Heart’s Edge. He swept through New York after the war and found me turning my ankles to the latest pretty tune, teasing all the boys. He decided right then and there he never wanted me to look at another man through my lashes but him.”
I laugh softly. “Sounds like his grandson takes a bit after him. When he decides something, there’s no swaying him.”
“Warren is quite a bit like his grandfather, indeed.” Her eyes soften. She reaches back to unclasp the locket, letting it spill into her palm, then gently opens it so I can see a handsome man in black and white.
His blunt jaw looks set just like Warren’s, the same rough and ready expression on his face, his smile just as arrogant, his hair a slick of black swept back neatly to match his crisp, old-fashioned Air Force uniform. “They’re both quite dapper, don’t you think?”
“I do.” I lean in, admiring Lawrence Ford. “Is it...okay to ask what happened?”
“Oh, it’s been years, darling. It doesn’t hurt to talk about it anymore.” But there’s a touch of loss, of heartbreak, in her voice, as she gazes down into that locket.
Then I wonder what it’s like to love someone so much that they live inside your every gesture and word, even long after they’re gone.
“My Lawrence was always a soldier. He couldn’t seem to shake it, even after the war in Europe ended. Every time they called him back for one patrol or another, he was always on the front lines. One day, his plane malfunctioned over the Bering Strait during routine exercises to keep the Russians at bay.” Her sigh is long and drawn, shaky. “They never found the wreckage, or his body.”
It’s not my story, not my loss...but my heart aches nevertheless, a sharp pang in my chest, both for her and for Warren. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Wilma.”
“That’s life. But I loved him while I had him, with everything in me—and that’s all that matters.” Her eyes gleam damp as she lifts her head, looking around the atrium with a smile that’s so beautiful, it hurts to see. “We built this atrium together. Sometimes I feel like I can still feel him here. Warren would come here so often as a boy, too. It’s like he knew the energy without even being told.”
“It’s absolutely beautiful. I’d have never imagined, from the outside.”
“We wanted it to be our secret place.” She chuckles, closing the locket and slipping the chain around her neck again, fiddling with the clasp. “Now that we’ve made the manor into a hotel, guests can enjoy the view, but only family are allowed inside.”
I wonder what it means that she’s let me and Tara here.
It almost feels like Ms. Wilma has adopted us, and I’m not sure what to think of that in the context of my relationship with Warren.
Last night, he’d come home with four different varieties of mushroom, just because he hadn’t known which one I wanted. And when I asked why he didn’t just text me and ask, the look on his face and the dumbfounded confusion had us both dissolving into laughter, then falling into each other’s arms.
Dinner was a bit late last night, but I don’t think either of us minded.
I look over. Ms. Wilma’s fumbling with the clasp, and I stand quickly, circling the bench.
“Let me,” I say, and she murmurs her thanks while I take the delicate chain and slip the clasp so that it locks securely around her neck again. “Thank you for letting us see this place. And thank you for caring for Tara so much while I’ve been busy.”
“You have no idea how happy it makes me to have a little girl around. It’s been a very long time.”
I know I shouldn’t ask. I know. Because I can’t get myself too wrapped up in this, can’t tell myself this is anything other than what it is, and yet...
“Was Jenna here often?” I venture tentatively, curling my hands against the back of the bench.
Ms. Wilma turns to look over her shoulder, sharp and canny but not unkind. “Now where did you hear the name Jenna, hm?”
“Um, I guess I...” I duck my head, clearing my throat, shame washing through me and my entire body too hot with my pounding pulse. “Sorry. It’s on his tattoo. And Stewart mentioned her name once or twice.”
“Ah, the mechanic. Such a gossip. And naturally you’ll be wondering who she is, and why Warren’s still an open wound where she’s concerned after all this time?”
Wincing, I nod. “I was just curious.”
Smoothly, Ms. Wilma stands, straightening her skirt and calling out to Tara. “Run inside and wash up before supper, dear.”
Tara immediately slows her kicking, bouncing off the swing with a nod, her pigtails swaying. “Yes, ma’am!”
I stare after her as she races off, disappearing into the house. “Wow. How'd you do that so easy? I have to beg, negotiate, and eventually bribe.”
“Who says I don’t bribe?” Ms. Wilma says with a merry wink. “Once you’ve tasted my cinnamon almond cookies, you’ll understand.” She inclines her head toward the door. “Come inside. I want to show you something.”
Curious, I follow Ms. Wilma. I always feel small next to her, and not just because she’s so tall while I’m the runt in the munchkin brigade. She’s so graceful and stately and formidable, and I kind of think if I had an aunt I wanted to be when I grew up, it would’ve been Ms. Wilma.
The inside of the house is cool and shadowed compared to the greenhouse warmth of the atrium, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust as we make our way through hallways decorated in airy linens contrasted by dark carpets and the occasional tasteful painting here and there.
Maybe I should paint something for Ms. Wilma before I leave.
Put my all into it, make it my best, something I can be proud to offer her in gratitude.
But I’m distracted from my thoughts as she steps into the living room with its Victorian furniture that’s been cared for so meticulously it looks almost brand new.
Several photos line the mantle, all of them in ornate gold frames that have been polished lovingly again and again, their shine soft in the bits of light glimmering through the curtains.
I realize this is what she wants me to see.
She stops at one end of the mantle, gazing fondly at a portrait of two kids that’s been cropped so it’s only the little boy and little girl, while the adults are just legs vanishing off into the frame.
It’s Warren. I recognize those blue eyes, that fierce stare, even in a chubby, adorable little boy covered in mud.
And the girl next to him looks a lot like him.
That resemblance grows stronger, as they grow taller and older in one picture after another.
Photos of them laughing together.
Photos of them glowering at each other.
Photos of them glaring at a man and woman who must be their parents, as they sulk over apparently disappointing Christmas gifts, wrapping paper everywhere in glittery tufts.
I can’t help but laugh. And it’s a painful thing when I already know how this ends.
Because at the end of the line, past photos of Warren fresh out of training with his head shaved into a military buzz-cut and his uniform crisp like his grandfather's, past photos of Jenna – because she must be Jenna – in her own uniform with her hair knotted back and her posture straight and proud, there's tragedy.
A single framed, folded flag with another, smaller photo of Jenna tucked into the corner of the frame. That flag can only mean one thing. It’s hard and hurtful to deal with even though I never even knew who she was.
I curl my knuckles against my mouth, staring at that photo, her eyes bright and determined; was this the last photo anyone ever took of her?
“She was his sister,” I whisper. “He lost his sister.”
“Yes. They were so close growing up. It took an absolutely devastating toll on him.”
I shouldn’t be getting emotional about this. Too bad the heart has a mind of its own.
And Ms. Wilma makes me feel so much like family that it almost feels like I somehow lost her, too – or maybe I’m just hurting for Warren. I suddenly understand all those angry, directionless prickles so much more.
He’s just like me.
Life hit him so hard it sent him reeling, and he hasn’t stopped spinning ever since, and it’s making him furious that without this one thing that set his life in order, he still can’t figure out up from down.
Oh, Warren...
“What happened?” I ask tentatively, fighting for words around my closing throat. “If...if it’s okay to ask, I mean.”
“An accident in the line of duty,” she says sadly. “During her last tour. Apparently friendly fire during a confused ambush, but no one’s entirely sure how it unfolded. The reports were...confusing. Of course, no one meant for her to get hurt.”
I frown. Friendly fire? An ambush?
That doesn’t really add up with what Stewart told me, but then I’m only getting fragments of the story. Maybe I’m just not piecing them together right. What do I know about war?
“Was Warren on deployment with her?”
“He was, but he was stationed elsewhere that day. A different unit.” This time Ms. Wilma doesn’t even try to stop the wetness in her eyes from spilling over. “One of my babies came home in a casket. The other came home a completely different man. Warren’s never been the same since.”
“Oh, Ms. Wilma...” For once I don’t question my impulses.
I just go to her and wrap my arms around her and pull her in. She makes a startled, proud sound but then leans into me, her thin arms curling around me.
She’s strong, and she hugs me so fiercely, so tightly, clinging to me. I’m glad I trusted my instincts. She’s a proud, powerful woman, yes.
But even proud, powerful people need comfort now and then.
After a moment, though, she pulls back, smiling brightly despite her streaming eyes, then sniffs and wipes at her cheeks before gripping my shoulders. “Honestly, ever since you’ve come to Heart’s Edge, he’s been better. He’s always had a temper. It’s almost a relief to see him snapping off everywhere again instead of grim and brooding, bottling it up inside.”
“Try being on the other end of his tantrums and say that,” I say with a laugh.
“Oh, he wouldn’t dare with me, darling,” she says, her smile turning wicked. “And I dare say you’ve found your own ways to keep him in check?”
I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know if I’m keeping Warren in check so much as we keep pushing and pulling on each other until the strings stretched between us are so taut, they’re ready to snap.
But there’s a look in Ms. Wilma’s eye that's too much when she pats my shoulder.
“I did wonder if I’d ever have great-grandchildren. I’m not that old. It’s not too late.”
I choke, spluttering, somehow managing to gag myself on nothing but air.
But I’m saved from a dozen awkward denials by the sound of a car door slamming outside. It must be Warren, thank God.
He was supposed to be joining us for dinner, but he promised to stop by Stewart’s shop to pick up my car first so I wouldn’t be begging for rides to work tonight. Apparently, the Mustang will probably last another week with the short-term fix, but Stewart promised he’ll do whatever he can to get the part in by then.
I called my sister to let her know, but she didn’t answer.
Later, I got a terse text that she’d PayPal me the cost, but when I told her it was on the house thanks to small town hospitality, she didn’t answer.
Ugh.
I guess Hawaii’s not going so well.
It’s that kind of cold splash though – the slow motion demolition of a real, loving marriage that’s so closely connected to me – that pushes Ms. Wilma’s starry-eyed daydreams of grandchildren and not-so-subtle hints from my head.
But I’m still breathless and nervous when the front door slams open and I hear Warren come thudding in. He’s normally not this noisy.
He moves like the wild animal he is, this prowling beast of pure raw power so utterly in control of his body that he can move his massive bulk without making a single sound. But today he looks tired as he trails past the living room door out in the hallway, just a glimpse loping past as he calls “Grandma? Haley?” before stopping and backtracking to lean on the living room door.
The oddest transformation passes over his face as he sees us standing in front of the mantel, Jenna’s portraits lined up behind us, Ms. Wilma’s face still damp from crying.
Underneath that swarthy tan, he goes pale, then red, before somehow going blank.
I hadn’t realized how much he’d relaxed, the warmth in his eyes erasing the constant hostile tension that was always the norm at first – until suddenly that tension returns. It radiates out of him like sharp, jabbing spikes, ready to launch at me and Ms. Wilma at a second’s notice. His jaw tightens, clenching, working back and forth, muscles slowly ticking underneath his beard.
“Your car’s ready,” he snaps off, his voice oddly toneless, before a quick flick of his wrist sends my keys sailing toward me.
Instinctively, I lurch forward to catch them, grasping them in both hands and clapping them together fast enough to make my palms sting as the edges of the keys cut into my skin.
“Warren?” I ask, but he’s already turned away, broad shoulders rolling like moving mountains, an earthquake of silent anger.
Ms. Wilma clucks her tongue. “Oh, don’t be that way, dear. I thought you were all going to stay for dinner?”
“Not hungry,” he flings back over his shoulder, lifting a dismissive hand. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to fucking talk about without me anyway.”
“Swear jar,” a tiny voice pipes up from the hallway.
But Warren’s already sweeping out, and I hear the crash of the front door before his footsteps thud on the porch so violently it’s like I can feel them kicking my heart.
Tara peeks around the door, her eyes wide, her face drawn, her lip sucked in.
“Why’s Mr. Warren so mad?” she whispers, a little crack in her voice, and Ms. Wilma sighs.
“He’s not angry at you, darling dear,” she says. “He’s just hurting, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.” She turns her gaze on me. “I’m so sorry, Haley. I don’t mean for you to get caught up in our little family mess.”
“It’s fine,” I promise, even if I don’t know if I feel fine at all when I don’t know what I’ll find when I get back to the duplex. But I offer a brave smile and rest my hand lightly on her arm. “You’re just trying to make me feel at home. And I can always take him a plate.”
“Look at you, trying to take care of him.” Ms. Wilma pats my cheek, her palm warm and smooth. “He needs that, even if he'll never admit it. Come. Let’s enjoy our meal, even if we’re short one snarling grizzly bear.”
I only hold my smile wanly as I gather up Tara and follow Ms. Wilma to the dining room.
He needs that, she’d said. He needs someone to take care of him.
But that doesn’t necessarily mean he needs me.
Even with the stormclouds Warren left behind, dinner is still a warm, comfortable thing I want to hold on to for a while, maybe forever. Another memory to make up for the family memories I never had. I feel like this little sojourn in Heart’s Edge is a chance to regain lost time.
It can’t last forever, but it can help me capture a few moments worth keeping.
A still life with family, memory on neurons, painted by the strange emotions these new experiences make me feel.
I’m better by the time I wrap up a plate of steaming roast turkey drenched in gravy, pasta casserole, and mashed potatoes to take back to Warren. Tara insists on carrying it, and I just make sure she’s got a good grip on the warm plate without burning herself before we set out into the night to enjoy the stroll back to the cabin.
This weird dread hovers over me the whole way, making me feel like maybe this is the last calm I'll get for a while.
Warren almost looked betrayed, and I don’t think I have to guess what kind of reception I’ll get.
Still, I can’t help the little crush of disappointment when we walk up the steps and I realize he’s not waiting in our half of the duplex.
I’d kind of gotten used to it over the last few days, him spending more time on our side than on his, making himself part of our lives while still keeping us distant from whatever secrets he’s locked away in his half of the cabin.
