Accidental Happiness (29 page)

“Have some cake, Preacher.” Charlie sliced a piece of the doll’s apparel, exposing her nonanatomically correct private area. “Whoops, I think Barbie’s getting a little cold there.” He served up the portion and grinned at the minister.

“I’ll have another slice while you’re at it,” Derek said, raising his eyebrows.

“Barbie here ought to get tips,” Charlie said, handing over a plate to Andrew. “Sorry, Preacher,” he said. “I’ll tone it down a little.”

Preacher Andrew smiled, took the plate. “Don’t worry. I was a Marine for almost ten years,” he said. “It takes more than a naked doll to get me blushing.”

The general laughter in the room died down quickly when Angel pushed through the adult bodies to reach the cake.

“Can I have her?” she asked, looking uncomfortable, pretty close to tears.

“Sure, baby,” Reese said, pulling the doll from what was left of the cake dress. “You take her and wash her off. Nobody was trying to be mean.”

Angel took the doll and ran off to the bathroom.

“I’m such an ass.” Charlie stood, frosting-covered knife still in his hand, further incriminating himself. “A damn idiot.”

Andrew and Derek looked at the floor too. They’d all become misbehaving boys.

We went back into the den. Wrapping paper littered the floor along with a new doll and various games. Angel had been delighted as she opened them, but her favorite gift, the one she wouldn’t part with, was the pink digital watch Derek had given her. It played two songs, one from
Beauty and the Beast,
the other from
Aladdin.
The notes had the thin, metallic quality of computer chip sound, but the child couldn’t get over it. A watch that told time and played music.

“Everybody set for drinks?” I asked before settling on the couch between Reese and Derek.

With Angel off tending to her doll, the party became an entirely adult gathering. The men, even the preacher, nursed bottles of beer, and the background reggae fed an atmosphere that evoked more smoky bar than a child’s party. I’d moved on to bourbon myself, although the pull toward oblivion wasn’t as strong as it had been in previous weeks. A good sign, I hoped. But looking around at the lot of us, I wondered if Angel had ever had a childhood.

“How’re you feeling?” Andrew asked Reese.

She nodded, mouthed
okay,
and they exchanged something, a slightly prolonged glance, that implied things unspoken. Charlie noticed it too, looked more than a little ticked off that his girlfriend, or at the very least, his frequent date, seemed to have some undercurrent running with the preacher.

After a short while Angel came back. Cinderella Barbie had become Dishtowel Barbie. Safety pins secured her gingham strapless number in pinched-up gathers at the back.

“Beautiful,” Reese said as Angel settled on the floor beside Georgie.

“She certainly looks more comfortable,” Derek said, bending down to look at the doll. The way Angel looked up at him, I knew a crush had been established. She was safe with that one, I thought.
And so am I.
It came unbidden, that notion. But I didn’t reject it. I didn’t want to.

“Well, sweetheart,” Lane said, standing up. “Happy birthday. I’ve got to get back home and it’s a good drive back, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Can’t you stay here?” Angel asked. Lane must have seemed like a lifeline of stability to the child.

“No, but you get a good night’s sleep and I’ll be here before you know it.” Then she turned to Reese. “Don’t try to pick up. I’ll come back in the morning and get everything in order. Are you working tomorrow?”

“I hope.” Reese offered a weak smile, lifted her arm slightly, but, even so, it took obvious effort.

As I watched the exchange, I realized how often Lane had been looking after Angel, how much she’d taken on in just over a week’s time. The odd part was, she seemed glad to have the two of them in her life. Even more peculiar was how much I’d come to rely on time at the cottage, if not exactly
with
them, at least in parallel with their lives. The drive to Sullivan’s Island, hanging out around Reese and Angel, with Lane, Derek, and Charlie in frequent attendance, had become my nonworking routine.

“Okay, then,” Lane said. “I’ll check in on you and we’ll sort the rest of the day then.”

“You’ve done too much already,” Reese said, then stopped. What alternative could she offer? She needed help, had no choice but to accept it. I suddenly felt guilty, the slovenly sibling.

“I’ve got the cleanup covered,” I said. “Don’t worry about that. Most of the dishes are paper and plastic, anyway.”

“You sure?” Lane gathered her bag, checked for her keys.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a nice change. Puttering around in a place that’s larger than a space module.”

Lane left, but as it turned out, I didn’t clean up. I sat on the couch with Reese, slightly buzzed from the bourbon, while Angel played with Georgie at our feet. And the boys—that’s what the three of them seemed like together—made a game of it.

“It’s the new millennium,” Derek had announced after Lane took off. “Gender roles no longer apply. Let’s get to it, boys.”

“What?” Charlie cocked his head, stayed fast in his chair.

“Get off your ass,” Derek shot back as he headed for the kitchen.

“What about Preacher here?” The edge of rivalry remained in Charlie’s tone, but it sounded more like a game of touch football than serious jealousy over a woman. “Does
he
get to just lounge like a yard dog while we work.”

“Depends.” Derek turned around, one eyebrow went up. “If old Marines can learn new tricks.”

Andrew shook his head, grinning, then stood up. The three of them bumbled their way through a passable cleanup, while Reese, Angel, and I watched—and laughed.

Derek had known that my efforts would have only pointed out what Reese couldn’t do, but the three of them going at it became entertainment.

And I felt as if, without realizing it, I’d crossed over. I’d gone from existing back to almost living. I couldn’t name the moment, but I knew for certain that it wasn’t
before
Angel and Reese had landed on my boat that night. Strange, how terrible things can sometimes open doors as well as close them. I didn’t know where I’d end up with my newfound optimism. But the final destination, for the evening, at least, would be Derek’s bed, as it had been for several nights running. That would do for a short-term plan.

“Want me to help you with your pajamas?” I asked Angel, who barely qualified as awake from the look of her eyes.

“No, thank you,” she said, polite but dismissive. Every time I spoke to the girl, I ended up feeling reprimanded.

“Well, don’t stay up too much longer.” I was improvising what a TV adult might say to a child. She looked at me as if I’d broken out in spots, a mixture of confusion and distaste.

She thanked everyone for her presents, took Fashion Disaster Barbie and the new pink watch and left the room, I assumed to put
herself
to bed. Fine with me.

Reese stood up. “I should get ready to turn in too,” she told us. But she didn’t try to move away from the chair. She had been sitting for most of the evening. I figured she had gotten a little stiff from staying in one position for so long. But when she tried to step forward, something happened. Her foot, her knee, something gave way and she landed in a heap on the floor.

“God, Reese!” I reached her before the guys, had a split second where our eyes met. The look of defeat told me more than anything else.

“Goddamn it!” she muttered.

“Here, let me help you get—”

“I’m fine,” she cut me off. “My foot went to sleep.” All three men knelt to help her. “I have a problem with circulation if I sit too long. It’ll get better soon. I just have to work it out.” Charlie tucked his head under her arm and lifted her to a standing position. She let him help her, seemed more at ease taking assistance from a man. “Thanks,” she said, pushing him away once she had her footing. “I mean it, I’m fine.” As she turned, a dark patch of color on the back of her pale skirt stood out like a bright flag against a flawless blue sky. Blood. On top of everything else, she’d started her period.

The men looked at me. One at a time, they all found excuses to go to the kitchen or the bathroom. I was on my own.

“Reese, “ I began. “Your skirt . . .”

She looked down. “What?”

“In back.”

She pulled the material around and looked behind. “Oh, shit.” She sounded so tired.

“Let’s get to your room,” I said. “I’ll rinse your skirt out and get you what you need.”

She managed to stand. I tried to take her arm, but she pulled away, looked as if she might cry, but she didn’t. Finally, she said, “Could you hand me that, please?”

I looked where she was pointing. A tall container, like an elongated bucket, sat by the door. It was full of umbrellas.

“You want an umbrella?”

She shook her head. “In there, with them.”

I sorted through the handles until I found what she needed. A cane. I took it out and handed it to her. “Here you go.” I tried to make my voice sound normal, like there was nothing unusual about handing a young woman an old man’s walking cane.

I went with her, beside her, but not touching, not trying to give more than I was asked, and when we got into her room, she said, “The skirt. Could you . . . ? I don’t want to sit down and stain the bed.”

I unhooked it at the waist and helped her step out of it. Her underwear too. Without the full skirt—the only thing I’d seen her wear—her naked hips looked small, perfect, her legs tanned. I thought of her with Ben and then forced myself to shut the visions down before they could fully form. Ben was gone, and there was no competition between us.

“Thanks,” she said, unbothered by her half-naked state. She made her way to the master bathroom, sat on the toilet, and put her cane within easy reach.

“What should I get for you?” I asked.

“Underwear in the bottom drawer,” she said. “And pads in the cabinet over the sink.”

I got them both and handed them to her. “Reese?” I wanted to tell her that I knew. She didn’t have to make up stories about sprains and poor circulation. I wanted to tell her it was okay to let people help her. But after one look at her expression—the face of someone too defeated to care anymore—I let it go. There would be a better time to talk with her. Anytime would be a better time to talk with her.

“I’ll put your skirt in the washing machine to soak. I can pretreat the stain.”

“Thank you.” Her voice had no life.

I picked her skirt and panties off the floor, and as I turned to leave the bedroom, I saw Angel in her room, still holding her doll, looking through the small crack left in the doorway.

“Your mom’s okay,” I said. I put down the soiled clothes and walked over to her, opened the door a little.

She nodded. Before I thought about it, I reached up and combed her hair with my fingers. Pulled the soft curls away from her eyes and tucked the hair behind her ear. Only after I’d done it did I realize how remarkable it was that she’d let me.

“Could you do these?” she asked, turning around. Two buttons on her pajamas flapped undone at the back on her neck. “I can’t reach them,” she explained.

I secured them for her, then picked up the clothes. “Want to help me put these in the laundry?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Come on.”

She measured the soap, put it in with such a sense of purpose that I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

“I’ll go to bed now,” she said when we had finished.

I offered to tuck her in, but she didn’t respond with a clear yeah or no. Simply shrugged her shoulders. I didn’t want to push it too far, for either of us, so I just said good night to her in the hall.

Before I went across the hall to check on Reese, I heard Angel’s voice, small but clear, coming from inside her room.

“Gina?” I couldn’t recall her ever saying my name before. It sounded phonetic and strange coming from her.

“Yes?” I said quietly, not to sound too eager.

“Thanks for helping my mom.”

I had trouble finding sufficient sound to answer her, but finally managed a chirpy “You bet.” I listened closely for a few seconds to see if more would come from her. But it didn’t, so I moved on.

When the crisis had passed, Reese came back out to the den, refused to go to bed. I thought of asking if she wanted me to stay, but she clearly needed to keep up a facade that nothing was really wrong, and I didn’t have the energy to push her past it. And she did seem okay again; even appeared to be moving a little better.

The men were still on the porch, scared to come back in, I imagined. Derek wanted me to ride with him back to the marina, so I collected Georgie and went to his truck, a small red pickup he said he’d had since he was an undergrad. Georgie liked the back section behind the seat because he put towels down and an old fleece jacket for comfort.

Charlie agreed to drive my car back. I figured he planned to detour by Jesse’s, a waterfront bar on the way. But I didn’t care. The Volvo was worth more in insurance than resale, so unless he hurt himself or someone else, there wasn’t much harm in letting him run loose with my keys.

Oddly enough, Andrew stayed around to close the party down. As we drove away, I saw Reese standing with him on the porch, the two of them already deep in some discussion before we cleared the driveway.

“I gotta say I can’t help but like the guy,” Derek said when I commented that Andrew and Reese seemed to have a lot to talk about. “But it’s no wonder his wife isn’t feeling all that well.” He glanced back at the cottage in the rearview.

“Yeah. I don’t know exactly what’s going on there. I don’t
think
he’s sleeping with her. But he’s not being very smart either. Small churches love gossip, and when it’s the preacher . . .”

“Why don’t you think he’s sleeping with her?” Derek asked, eyes on the road ahead.

“He’s a preacher. They don’t do that sort of thing. At least they shouldn’t.”

“Well, of course they
shouldn’t.
Didn’t you read
The Thorn Birds
?” He caught himself, but it was too late.