Send Down the Rain(37)
“And the phone call the night he died?”
“I was mad. Said some horrible things. Things I never should’ve said.” She paused. “But knowing what I think I know now, I should’ve said more.”
South Georgia rolled along outside the window.
“After we hung up, he tried”—she made quotation marks in the air—“to make it home. Tired as he was. You know the rest.” She bit part of a cuticle and spit it onto the floorboard. “He had probably been sleeping in his other bed with his other wife and was good and rested when he jumped into that Jeep.”
“What had you planned to do with the life insurance money before you found out there isn’t any?”
She laughed. “Pay off my debt. Reopen the restaurant. The cottages.”
“You still love it?”
“It’s what I know. I know how to take that place and make people happy. I love seeing the smiles and hearing the laughter. Always have. My dad was a lot of bad things, but one good thing was his belief that people would come from all over to sit on that beach and stare out across that water and eat good food. There’s something peaceful there. And I think he was right.” She looked at me. “I think at one time you believed that too.”
“I did.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth.”
“Yes.”
“You give me your word?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to you?”
“Which part?”
She tapped her chest. “The part that included me.”
“Well, about forty-five years ago, I went on vacation twelve thousand miles away—”
She interrupted me. “You told me you were going to California.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t want you to worry.” I paused. “But either way it didn’t matter, because when I came home two years later, you were dressed in white and marrying my brother.”
She rubbed her palms together and closed her eyes for a long second. “Yes . . . I did that. But . . . you disappeared. Silent for two years. I needed someone to hold me.”
I tried to make light of it. “Well . . . maybe you could’ve chosen someone other than my older brother.”
She leaned closer. “I needed to hear from you. No letter. No nothing. Why?”
“That might be tough to explain.”
“Try me.”
“If I died, and chances were good that I would, then I didn’t want to leave you standing over my grave holding a handful of tearstained letters. If I left you nothing to hold on to, you could cling to someone else. I was trying to make it easier for you if I didn’t make it home.”
“Would’ve been nice to know that then.”
“Even when I did make it home, you wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with me.”
“What happened? Where’d you go? Where’ve you been?”
I laughed. Something I hadn’t always been able to do. “That’s a long story with little to interest you. And a lot that I’m not real proud of.”
“Does it hurt to tell it?”
“Some.”
She placed her hand on my arm. “Tell me.” She propped her feet on the dash and laid her head back against the headrest. Air coming in through the open window was tugging at her hair. “Jo-Jo, I want to know about your life.”
I switched hands on the wheel. “How far back am I going?”
“September 15th, 1972.”
I squinted. “Second most painful day of my life.”
“What was the most?”
“The day you married my brother.”
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
“Well, we should probably talk about it.”
She twirled a finger through her hair and looked away. “We already covered that. Worst decision I’ve ever made. Although, in light of recent events, it may be second worst. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve had two really bad marriages with very little love and zero tenderness.”
We were talking with the ease of two kids, forty-five years ago.
“I’ve been with two men—”
I raised my hand. “And I’m not one of them, mind you.”
She smiled. “True. As I was saying, I’ve been with two men, neither of whom sent chills up my spine the way your hand in mine once did. Or your kiss on my lips.” She paused. “You ever marry?”
“No.”
“Ever been in love?”
“Yes. Twice.”
“When?”
“Once when I was younger.”
She smiled and twirled a finger through her hair again.
“Then later, after I’d been in-country for a couple of years.”
“Where was she from?”
“Europe. She was a singer.”
“What happened?”
“The war.” I shrugged. “Didn’t take.”
Her eyes were glassy when she spoke. “When you came back . . . why didn’t you come back here?” A tear broke loose. “You promised.”