Chasing Sunsets Part 14

Maybe you should just concentrate on your studies, Steven. And not frat parties. I hear all kinds of loose girls go to them. They get drunk and they let boys do things. I don't want to think about you with any loose girls.

Steven wasted no time; another letter was on the table lying askew in the pewter bread tray my parents used for incoming and outgoing mail only a few days later.

Oh, baby, don't think like that. I was just horsing around with you. The studies keep me plenty busy and then Dad and Mom want me back in Cedar Key every weekend I don't have something going on here. Believe me, between studies and my folks, there's little time for women.

Besides, with someone like you waiting on me, why would I ever be interested in anyone else?

"He's lying," Heather had said as we sat across from each other on the twin beds of our shared bedroom.

I reached over and s.n.a.t.c.hed the pages from my sister's hands. A whiff of Steven's cologne struck me; he always dotted the pages with it so I wouldn't forget him, he told me. I did the same back. My Lady Stetson to his Stetson for Men.

I pressed the pages to my chest. "He is not. Why would you even think that?"

"Oh, please. Do you honestly believe that a guy as good looking as Steven Granger is sitting in his dorm room night after night, hunched over the books or writing you letters? I bet there are all kinds of girls checking him out."

I squared my shoulders. "Maybe that's true. But Steven is not the kind of guy to fall for their wiles."

Heather stretched out her legs and fell toward the thick pillow at the headboard. "Whatever you say, Kim."

I stood over my sister. "I say, Heather, because no matter what temptation I placed in front of him, he was always the gentleman."

Heather rose on her elbows. "You'd better not let Dad or Mom hear you say that. You'll never go out with him again and you know it."

I blew out my frustration toward my sister, then stomped over to her desk to write a return letter.

I miss you so much. I cannot wait until Christmas. Honestly, if Dad and Mom say we aren't going to CK for the holiday, I swear to you, I'll run away and meet up with you there. This letter writing is fine and dandy, but what I need, Steven, is to hear your voice and to feel your arms around me one more time.

And then Christmas came. I could hardly contain myself as we drove to our island home the Sat.u.r.day before. I had already written to Steven and asked him to meet me that day at City Park.

Two o'clock, and don't be late.

His return letter had been more than a week in coming, but the words he'd written were all the Christmas wonder I needed.

I'll be there. I cannot wait to see you either. You'll be a breath of fresh air and a sight for sore eyes. (I know, totally cliche, but I never claimed to be a poet.) When I told my parents I wanted to-had to-take the car to the park, they'd complied. "Why don't you take Ami with you?" Dad teased. He winked, but nearly five-year-old Ami had overheard and made her fussy demands.

"Dad," I said through clenched teeth.

But he only said with a chuckle, "Sorry, Boo."

And so Ami had tagged along, meaning that Steven and I couldn't really be alone. I couldn't lose myself in him as I'd daydreamed of doing. I would have to keep an eye on the toddling, always prancing around Ami.

In the end, it didn't matter. Steven was waiting for me-alone-by one of the children's play sets. I ran to him nearly as fast as Ami ran for the sliding board. He opened his arms, and I slammed into his chest with all the force of a lost lover. "Wow," he said. "Miss me much?"

I leaned my head back. "Don't you dare tease me." And then he kissed me, long and hard.

"What's with bringing Ami?" he asked, eyeing my kid sister.

"She was being a brat, so Dad said I had to."

Steven laughed. "She's our chaperone."

I allowed my voice to go low and smoky. "Do we need one?"

He kissed me again. "I'd say we do."

But for the week we were together, Steven remained the gentleman he'd always been. We didn't see each other nearly as much as I hoped; it seemed he always had something he had to do. "You know moms during Christmas," he said by way of excuse. I didn't like the restrictions on our time-hated them, in fact-but I had little choice but to go along with it.

The moments I wasn't with Steven, I hung out with Heather and once with Rosa. We went out on the family boat on a warm day, scouting for birds and dolphins. We docked at Atsena Otie and hiked-as Steven and I had done in the summer months-from the sh.e.l.l-scattered beach, under the crooked fat branches of the oaks, and between the thick fronds of the saw palmettos, until we reached the old graveyard, where I photographed the headstones and Rosa made up stories about the deceased.

"Look at this, chica," she said as she stood before one of the graves. "They practically put the life stories on these headstones."

I walked over to the time-yellowed, mossy tombstone. "J. R. Hudson," I read. "Born February 16, 1835. Died January 5, 1883."

"Over a hundred years ago."

I continued reading. "Leaving a wife and five children . . ." I squatted to take a photograph. "You're right," I said. "It is like reading their life stories."

"Wonder what they'll write on our tombstones," Rosa mused.

I stood then. "Kimberly Claybourne Granger," I said with a smile. "Wife of Steven. Mother of . . . hmm." I looked at the writing near my feet. "Five perfect children."

Rosa laughed lightly.

"What about you, Rosa? What will yours say?"

Rosa's eyes rose to where the blue sky peeked between the limbs and leaves of the gnarled trees. "Rosa . . . last name here . . . loving wife. No. Pa.s.sionate wife of . . . first name here. Mother of . . . three. Lived to love. Loved to live."

I furrowed my brow. "Last name here?" My tongue slipped across dry lips. "Come on now, Rosa. You've been seeing someone, haven't you?" The look on Rosa's face confirmed what I had suspected since we'd returned for the holiday. "Aha! Does your mother know? She doesn't! I can tell. Ooooh, Rosa! Tell me, who. Tell me." I giggled at the thought of Rosa sneaking around with some boy on the island.

But Rosa shook her head. "No one you know."

I picked up a branch lying nearby and poked it at my friend. "Tell me, Gooney-bird."

Rosa laughed as she danced away. "Just some boy my cousin Luis introduced me to."

I was right behind her, holding tight to my camera lest it bam against me and leave me bruised. We ran along the winding trail leading back to the beach, giggling like schoolgirls, until we reached the boat. I held the key up and said, "No leaving this island until you spill the beans, chica."

"It's nothing big," Rosa said. "Only, I think I love him very much but . . ."

"But?"

Rosa shook her head and kicked at the remainder of an old horseshoe crab sh.e.l.l. "It's nothing."

"Does he live on the mainland?"

"Yes."

I crossed my arms. "You're being so mysterious," I said with a wink. Rosa looked up but didn't smile. A realization hit me, making me feel dizzy. "Is he . . . married?"

Rosa laughed then. "Yes, Boo-Boo. I'm fifteen and dating a married man on the mainland."

I waved away the sarcasm. "Okay, okay. Is he . . . older?"

"Un poco. A little."

I tapped my temple as if I were mentally filing away the clues. "Okay. He is a friend of your cousin. He lives on the mainland. He is a little older. And he does not know your mother."

"He knows Mama. She just doesn't know that we have seen each other a few times."

"A few times? And you think you're in love already?"

"I know I am."

"Rosa . . ."

"Don't make fun of me, chica." Rosa's eyes filled with tears. "You don't know what you are talking about."

I reached for Rosa's hand and held it. "Okay, okay. So, you don't want me to know anything more, I take it?"

"No. Best you don't. In case Mama gets suspicious and asks you questions, you can say that you don't know about anything."

We squeezed our hands in oath. "Okay. But promise me you'll tell me when you can."

Rosa kissed me on the cheek then. "I promise. You'll be the first to know."

In May, when the final letter came-and the letters came only once a week by then-I fell apart. I stayed in my bed and cried for days. I refused to go to school. I didn't care that these were the last days of senior year, supposedly one of the best years of my life.

Heather hovered close but not too close. Jayme-Leigh said she thought the whole thing was ridiculous. "Use your brain," she said. "Get a good education and forget about him." Ami cried with me, even though she didn't know why we were crying.

Mom and Dad both gave me the s.p.a.ce I needed, and eventually I was able to add the letter to the top of the stack I kept in an ornate wooden box. The letter, which read: You will always be special to me, Boo. Always. And don't think there was anything you did wrong. I promise there wasn't. It's complicated. Too complicated. I wish I could explain it all to you, though in time I know you will understand all too well. And for that, I am truly very, very sorry.

I allowed no one to read the letter. I said it was too personal, too private. I told them only that the relations.h.i.+p between Steven and me was officially over. That he had fallen for a girl he met in college. That he said he had never meant to hurt me, but that when he met Brigitte-and what kind of name was that?-he had found "the one."

It wasn't until later that year, when our family went to Cedar Key for our annual holiday vacation, that we learned the truth. The real truth.

Steven Granger was not just a young husband; he had become the father of a baby girl, born too soon.

A fighter from birth, we were told, whom he'd named Eliza.

15.

Steven drove me home. We said an awkward good night at the door, then Steven bounded down the stairs as I slipped inside.

I pressed myself against the door, waiting until I heard the sound of his car driving back out to the road. "Max?" I called. A moment later, a sleepy Max met me at the door, sauntering toward me at a snail's pace. I slid down until I rested on the floor. "Hey, boy," I said as he nuzzled my neck, panting warm breath in my ear. I laughed. "Well, this isn't exactly how I thought my date would end . . . but it's better than nothing."

The next morning I walked over to Patsy's. She was sitting out on her deck, sipping on a gla.s.s of iced tea. I stood between our two houses, looking up at her, watching as she gazed out over the marshes. I wondered about the details of her life. What moments-good and bad-had brought her to this point. Inside her home were many framed photos . . . family members I'd yet to ask her about. I genuinely wanted to know who they were, who they'd been to her or were to her. How her life had been affected by theirs and vice versa.

"h.e.l.lo, there!" I heard her call.

I jumped, startled. "Good morning. I thought I'd see what you are up to this morning."

"Just sitting out here talking to the Lord," she said.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked, already heading for the staircase. "Not to interrupt your prayer, but . . . I mean, to just chat?"

"Not at all."

When I reached the top I noticed her iced tea had watered down in the early morning heat. "Patsy, want me to get you some more tea?"

Patsy turned to look at me. She smiled. "Get yourself a gla.s.s too," she answered.

Minutes later I returned with a tray holding two gla.s.ses of iced tea and three photographs. "I picked these up too," I said. "I hope you don't mind."

She looked over to the tray, seemingly focusing on the photographs-old black and whites-and smiled. Try hard as I might, I couldn't tell if it was happy or sad or somewhere in between.

I sat next to her, took a sip of sweet tea, and said, "It's going to be so hot today."

"It's already hot," she answered. "Where I come from, we used to call it a 'scorcher.'"

"Where do you come from, Patsy?" I asked. "I know you moved here from South Carolina, but where did you grow up?"

Patsy reached for one of the photographs on the tray I'd placed on the small table between the Adirondacks. I crossed one leg over the other and settled back.

"This man right here," she began, "was my father. My real daddy, I guess you could say."

A familiar story. "He didn't rear you?"

She shook her head. Her eyes s.h.i.+mmered moist and sad. "He died when I was just a little thing. Four years old to be exact. Nearly five, though. My mother . . ." She reached for another photograph and held the two frames together. "What a beauty, huh?"

I took the photograph from her hand and studied it. It was a wedding photograph. Her mother had been a slender woman, with dark bobbed hair and thin brows. Her lips held a deep Cupid's bow and were painted what appeared in the sepia finish to be red. Her dress was elegant; the veil wrapped the crown of her head then spilled to the floor with her gown's train. A single strand of pearls dipped at the base of her swanlike throat, and a ma.s.sive cl.u.s.ter of flowers was clasped in her hands. "She's nothing short of gorgeous," I said. "She could have been a model."

"You are actually right there," Patsy said. "But she chose instead to marry my father."

I looked at the photo Patsy continued to hold in her hand, the fingertips of the other lightly stroking the image. It appeared to have been taken while her father strolled along the sidewalk of a city. He wore a double-breasted suit and a derby hat and carried a tall umbrella. "Dapper, I believe is the word," I said.

"Handsome. So handsome. No wonder my mother chose to marry him." She smiled then as a giggle escaped her lips. "My mother." She reached for the photo I still held in my hands. "My mother was seven months along with my little brother when Daddy died." She looked at me fully. "Pneumonia," she said with a heavy sigh. "Not like today. Pneumonia in those days was the kiss of death, I suppose." Once again she held the two photographs side by side, gazing at them lovingly.

"What did your mother do?" I asked. "With a baby on the way and a four-year-old in tow?" I thought of Charlie then. He'd left the boys and me, yes, but he'd also made provisions for us to continue to live in our home and for the boys to have everything they could ever need. "Had your father left enough for you to live on?"

"Goodness, no. Those days were different, you know. My father did well enough, but he never dreamed of dying so young, I'm sure. There's always time, we think when we're young. But there isn't always."

Had Charlie died, I thought, rather than having had divorced me, his life insurance policy would have been more than sufficient. I could have quit my job, had I so desired. But had he died without that policy, I would have sold the house and perhaps had to move back in with my father and stepmother until I could get my bearings. "Did she return to live with your grandparents, then?"