Beach House Memories (40 page)

“Stratton, you know I care deeply for you,” she began. She saw immediately the barely perceptible change in his expression, noting that she had substituted the word
care
for
love
. “You were my first love.”

“And I still am. I love you,” he interjected urgently.

She knew he expected, wanted her to say those same words to him. She had many times before.
I love you
. Words said so frequently—when he left in the morning, on the phone, before a trip—they held little meaning. But to say them now, those three words would carry so much weight. To say them now would mislead him. So she persevered.

“I think you love the idea of me,” she said. “I’m your wife, the mother of your children. I keep your home, I organize our family schedule, I’m active in our church, I entertain your guests—
I know you love me as your wife. But I honestly don’t feel that you love
me
. I’m not sure you even know me.”

His face screwed up with confusion as he drew back, dropping her hands. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I know you. We’ve been married for fifteen years! There’s nothing I don’t know about you. You make it sound as though my loving you for all those things you do for me and the family is somehow wrong.”

“No, no, not at all,” she countered. She wanted desperately for him to understand. “I know you’re grateful and appreciate all I do for you, and for the family, as you said. Truly, Stratton.” She held her breath, knowing she was about to light the powder keg. “That is a kind of love. But gratitude is what you feel for a secretary or a servant for a job well done. Vivian’s been with us for as long as we’ve been married. I’m grateful to Vivian for staying here at the house and assuming my duties, and she does it remarkably well. I depend on her. But I’m not in love with her for doing that. Does that make sense?”

Stratton leaned back in the chair. The browns and golds of the tapestry blended with his hair. “Frankly, no,” he said in a cold voice. “What you’re saying is that you feel gratitude to me? That you are not in love with me.”

He’d said the words aloud that she could not bring herself to utter. There it was. All she had to do was say yes.

“Yes.”

His hand squeezed the glass so tightly she thought it would shatter. She saw his face mottle and his expression change from shock to anguish to settle on fury. Lovie’s muscles tensed. In a sudden swoop, he threw the Waterford glass across the room. Lovie ducked against the chair and heard it crash against the wall.

“It’s that guy,” he roared. His hands grasped the arms of the chair until his knuckles whitened. “That Dr. Somebody.”

“No, it’s not him.”

“So there is another man!” he shouted with a ring of triumph.

Lovie swallowed hard. “I didn’t say that.”

He rose to his feet and began to pace the room. Lovie clasped her hands so fiercely in her lap they felt numb.

“I knew it! When you didn’t name him, I dared to hope I was wrong and that there really was no one else, that what I’d heard was just some nasty rumor. And to think I felt so horrible that I hit you. So guilty. I’ll never be able to forget the sight of you on the floor, seeing what I’d done. But I believed that if I worked hard enough, groveled enough, begged for your forgiveness, that someday you would grant it to me and we’d move on. We could be a family. But now . . .”

He stopped and looked down at her, and his gaze cut her heart out with its scathing coldness. “Now I know you’re no better than a whore.”

Lovie’s breath escaped her, and she hunched over as though physically hit in the solar plexus.

“Now the tables are turned!” he ground out. “I’m no longer the villain seeking forgiveness in this scenario.” His shoulders drew back in righteousness as he paced. “I’m the wronged husband, the cuckolded fool. I was out working hard for my family, and you’re vacationing with no thought but to your own pleasure.” He stopped and pointed his finger as he bellowed, “It’s you who needs forgiveness. Not me!”

Lovie cowered, each word a dagger.

Stratton stopped pacing and went to sit again in his chair behind the desk. He leaned far back and crossed his arms across his chest, trying hard to restrain his fury. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he panted like a horse after a long race. The emotions were so strong, the words spoken so colossal and irretrievable; they both retreated to their corners, exhausted.

Time cooled his rage and tempered Lovie’s fear. She felt
spent but rallied her waning energy. That, she knew, was merely round two of this match.

Stratton rested his hand on some papers and thrummed his fingers deep in thought. Then he looked up. “God, Lovie, how did we get here?” He sighed and said with magnanimity, “I can try to forgive you.”

Lovie, who was still hunched over her thighs in desolation, slowly raised herself to an upright position. She lifted her chin and spoke clearly though softly: “Thank you. Do you seek my forgiveness as well?”

He snorted in superior disbelief. “I think not.”

“I see. And you see that beating as . . .”

“Deserved.”

“Ah.” She had to look off, not seeing the books or the paintings, only feeling the desperate squeezing of her heart. She’d been right. She mattered that little. Well, all right, then, she told herself. That made her decision that much easier. “I’m just curious,” she said, facing him again. “What about
your
affairs? Do you think I should forgive you for those?”

He looked at his fingers on the desk, then again at her. “What affairs?”

She laughed a short, bitter sound. “I see.”

He immediately changed his expression as the righteousness fled from his face, and in its place she saw a pained, pleading man. “Lovie, let’s drop this entire pretense. I’m sick to death of fighting with you. I didn’t call you in here to cast guilt or blame. Let’s just say we’re both guilty of some sin and let it go. There’s no building from that. I want us to get back to where we were before.”

She lowered her shoulders and felt curiously unafraid. She looked in his dark brown eyes, as rich and as hard as the walnut walls. “Stratton, try to understand. I don’t want to go back where we were before. I can’t. I’m not the woman I was. The woman
who did your bidding without question, the woman you belittled, the woman you raged at when you were drunk. That woman doesn’t exist anymore. Stratton, I can’t be that wife.”

“Can’t? You
are
my wife.”

She shook her head. “I want a divorce.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his face implacable.

“Stratton, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But you have to see there’s no point in continuing our marriage. I’m not asking for anything from you. You can have the house, the furniture, the money, everything. I don’t want anything from you. The children and I will just go someplace else to live. I won’t make it difficult, I promise.”

His brow rose in an inscrutable face. “The children? You think you can take my children from me?”

Lovie licked her lips as a new fear wormed into her heart. “Not take them, surely. We can work out a custody arrangement.”

“No,” he said gruffly, the word bubbling with fury and intent.

Lovie felt a wave of a cold. “What do you mean no?”

He stood up then, his hands on his desk, and leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I mean no! Do you think for a moment I’ll hand over my children?”

“They’re my children,” Lovie cried. “I’m their mother! No court will take them from me.”

“You’re an unfit mother!” he shouted, pointing at her. “A whore who had an affair under the nose of her own children. Who do you think you are? This is my town. My name means something here. Divorce me and I swear I’ll see to it that the children are taken away from you.”

She pushed herself up from the chair, gasping at the pain of the sudden movement on her injured ribs. “I won’t listen to this. You’re too angry.”

“Get back here.”

She felt numb but kept moving, one foot in front of the other. She had to get out, away from him. She panted with the effort, but fear kept her moving. As she walked up the stairs, he came into the hall and bellowed after her.

“Try to divorce me and I’ll crucify you to the cross!”

Twenty-one

T
he offices of Robert Lee Davis were located on Broad Street near Meeting Street in the heart of Charleston. This intersection was known as the venerable Four Corners of Law, where the laws of God and man were said to meet. Charleston City Hall was located on the northeast corner; the Charleston County Courthouse on the northwest corner; the United States Federal Courthouse and Post Office on the southwest corner; and St. Michael’s Church on the southeast corner.

Lovie passed the flower and sweetgrass basket ladies who sold their wares on the street corners as she made her way up the stairs of the white Federal-style building. She still couldn’t drive with a broken wrist and she didn’t want anyone to know where she was headed today. So she’d walked the six blocks along crumbling sidewalks on the unusually steamy October day. She wore panty hose, dress flats, and a loose-fitting A-line dress that was forgiving enough to let a little breeze flutter the hem. She hated the nylons that were de rigueur in the city and made her thighs sweat in the heat, but at least she could manipulate the new panty hose with one hand much better than she could the garters she remembered only too well.

As she walked, she thought women’s fashions these days seemed to be anything goes. Hemlines were up and down, fabrics were neutral brown or gaudy colors, and hair was trailing down the back or cut short like a boy’s. Women walked the streets dressed in outlandish outfits and wild prints she couldn’t imagine when she was a young woman walking these same streets. But these brave women were few compared to the rest of the locals, who still wore their hair coiffed and attempted the new styles with a tad more decorum than Yankee girls up north. Although, with her broken ribs, the idea of going braless was appealing. She paused to catch her breath at the top of the stairs.

A gentleman opened the heavy brass door for her and she met a wall of deliciously air-conditioned coolness. Though the lobby was cold and formal with marble and brass, the third-floor law office waiting room was decorated traditionally with antiques and heavy silk drapes, making it appear more like someone’s living room. A mature-looking secretary led her directly to Mr. Robert Davis’s office and knocked gently on the door. They both heard, “Come in!”

“Go right in. Mr. Davis is expecting you.” The secretary opened wide the door and stepped back, allowing her to pass.

Robert Lee Davis was small in stature compared to his impressive reputation. Small boned and slender, he sat behind an enormous partners’ desk stacked high with papers. He was dwarfed by them. But his smile was gigantic, and he stood to walk directly to her side as the secretary discreetly closed the door behind her as she left.

“Olivia!” he said jovially. His red bow tie made his face appear cheerier.

“Bobby Lee,” she responded, offering her hand. He took it and held it warmly. His owlish eyes scanned her face from behind wire-rim glasses. She smiled, but her toes curled in her shoes as
she wondered if he could see any traces of the bruises under her makeup.

Bobby Lee Davis had been the Rutledge family lawyer for as long as she’d been married. He was a contemporary of Stratton’s, but for reasons unknown to her, they didn’t like each other. The Davis law firm had represented the Rutledge family for generations and so still managed their family issues and wealth distribution.

Lovie had always liked the diminutive man with the brilliant legal mind and his old-world manners. Like her, Bobby Lee was a nature buff, who took on pro bono cases to preserve and protect local wildlife and landscape. They’d formed a fast friendship over the years, and even though Stratton had moved his business matters to another law firm, Lovie always turned to Bobby Lee for her own legal advice.

“Take a seat, please,” he said, ushering her to a celery-green velvet chair.

Lovie still had discomfort as she maneuvered herself into the chair. Bobby Lee rushed to assist her, his face troubled. Thankfully, he stayed on Lovie’s side of the mountainous desk, which allowed them to talk in a more personal manner.

“I’d heard you were injured,” he said, taking a Chippendale chair beside her and inching it closer. “Deborah sent you something, shrimp, I think it was.”

“Yes, thank you. It was delicious. I hope she got my thank-you note.”

Bobby Lee smiled and lifted his brows as though to say he didn’t know but probably. “You fell down the stairs, is that it?”

The way that he said the words and the dubious look he cast her from over the rim of his glasses told her he didn’t believe that sorry excuse. She was left to wonder how many other people in Charleston wondered.

“It could happen,” she said with a slight laugh.

“It could. But your being here today makes me think that perhaps it didn’t.”

Lovie sighed and shook her head. “I’m speaking to you in confidence now.”

His smile fell, and he assumed a professional expression. His owlish eyes grew hawkish. “Lawyer-client privilege.”