Queen of Broken Hearts (10 page)

“That awful letter from that awful old man!” She turns to Lex, the look of distress on her face worthy of an Academy Award. “Did you see
The Fairhoper
today, Lex? I felt so bad for Clare.”

Without a moment's hesitation or a flicker of remorse, Lex flat-out lies to her. “Naw, I never read that rag. Nothing of interest in it, anyway.”

“You won't say that when you see the editorial page,” she tells him with a shudder, then looks my way. “But don't worry, Clare. Everyone in town is talking about it now, but it'll blow over in a day or two.” Having gotten her usual dig in, she's finished with me, and she turns back to Lex. “Surely you can't be aware of the time! I went by your place to check on you,” she adds breathlessly, “and I was worried sick not to find you there. When I couldn't reach you on your cell, I came over here to see if Clare knew where you were. I couldn't call, since all of Clare's numbers are such highly guarded secrets.”

Yeah, and it'll be a cold day in hell before you get one of them, Mrs. Eaton-Yarbrough, I think, but manage to keep my face expressionless.

Lex retrieves his phone from his front pocket and frowns down at it. “Damn,” he mutters. “Hadn't even noticed it needed charging. Sorry, Elinor. And you're right. We must've lost track of the time.”

He told me that he'd made a promise to her in the hospital when he thought he was on his deathbed. He'd given his word that he would make more of an effort to maintain a friendly relationship. As Elinor had predicted, Lex had not wanted the divorce, and he'd been bitter and angry afterward, refusing to even be in her presence. The local gossips—especially Rye, naturally—had a field day when he made a great show of leaving after the two of them turned up at the same place. Even better was the way he crossed to the other side of the street when he was in town and happened to see her entering or leaving her shop. I have hopes that he'll eventually find healthier ways of dealing with her. Lex thinks I'm kidding about enrolling him in one of the retreats, but I'm not. Although he's told me that he loved Elinor and didn't want their marriage to end, he either shrugs it off or jokes about it when I've tried to get him to talk about his feelings. The anger he displayed afterward is a typical male reaction, I've told him, but he needs desperately to go through the rest of the process. I've tried to make him see his heartbreak as manifesting itself in a literal manner, with the heart attack coming not too many months after their divorce was final. (Apply your literal-mindedness here! I argued.) It's obvious to me that Lex has yet to deal with the emotional devastation that a divorce causes for everyone involved.

“Alexia tried to call you earlier this evening. She's the one who thought I should come over here to check on you,” Elinor tells him, her whispery voice provocative. When Lex was hospitalized, I also met Alexia, who's a student at Boston College and a willowy blonde with Lex's grass-green eyes. It was painfully obvious that her mother had done a number on her, since she masked her love and concern for her father with a studied nonchalance. After nodding a polite but cool greeting, she pointedly ignored me, and I knew Elinor had told her about me as well.

Elinor's cool blue stare would cower anyone, so I can't really blame Lex for not looking her way as he mutters, “Yeah, it's gotten pretty late, hasn't it?”

She takes him by the arm as though he's a naughty child caught playing hooky, and starts down the steps. “You should talk to Alexia, don't you think, and assure her that you're all right? Let's get you home and call her from there.”

He turns to me questioningly, and I give him a nod. “Elinor's right, Lex: You need to be home. Thanks for your help this afternoon. I really appreciate it.”

With a wave of his hand, he brushes off my appreciation, but it's difficult to say more with Elinor practically dragging him down the front steps. I go inside quickly so I don't have to witness her manipulation. Why can't Lex see what she's doing? Funny, how we allow the people we love to pull our strings like that. I see it all the time. It's obvious in Dory's reunion with Son.

When I enter the kitchen, I see that the message light on the answering machine is blinking furiously, like the malevolent red eye of an angry god, and I press it with dread. What now? The first one appears to be a hang-up, but before I can delete it, a falsetto voice comes on. “Is Fairhope's one and only divorce coach there? I need someone to help me get rid of my sorry-ass husband.” Rye laughs appreciatively at his own humor before he says, “I missed you tonight, sweetheart. Call me, and I'll tell you about the party.”

The next one is Dory, her voice soft and gentle. “Clare? I wish you were in so we could talk. I doubt you let that letter bother you, but I wanted to let you know that I'm thinking of you, honey.” There's a pause, then she adds, “I can't wait to see you in the morning. I'll bring the refreshments early so we can talk before the meeting starts, okay?”

I rub my face wearily before listening to the final message. Upon hearing Son's voice, I flinch and reach for the delete button. Lex deleted Son's previous messages, so it's a new one. “Hey, Clare, it's Son,” he says, as though the nitwit thought I wouldn't know his voice. I even recognize the tone. It's Son's cajoling, I'm-so-charming-no-one-could-possibly-resist-me voice. “Just trying to figure out why the hell you haven't called me back, since I've left you so many messages,” he says with an indulgent chuckle. “It's real important that we talk, Clare.
Real
important. Let me hear from you—”

Hitting the delete button with a sigh, I decide it's time to call it a day.

Before Dory gets to Casa Loco on Saturday morning, bringing refreshments for the ten o'clock group meeting, I pace the floor, unable to keep from peering out the windows every time a car drives by.

It's difficult when someone we love marries someone we don't love. When my clients lament their lack of affection—or worse—of a stepparent, an in-law, or a friend's spouse, my advice is always the same: You're stuck with having them in your life, so make the best of it. Decide if voicing your opposition is worth losing a loved one, since that could be the outcome. Whatever you do, don't put your loved one in the position of choosing between the two of you. I've had to follow my own advice with Dory. When I first met Dory Shaw, she was engaged to Son, and they were the golden couple on campus. All the girls thought Dory was lucky to have landed Son Rodgers, no doubt because he was wealthy, charming, and drop-dead gorgeous. Even though I thought he was the one lucky to have Dory, I, too, was taken with Son at first, but I was as unworldly as a wildflower then. I mistook his arrogance for self-assurance, his brashness for pride, and his jealous possessiveness as proof of his deep love for Dory. By the time I saw his true nature, she was in too deep to heed my warnings.

It was then I experienced something that had been only a theory up until that time. When forced into an intolerable situation, we find a way of making it tolerable: the Serenity Prayer in action. Dory loved a man I found unlovable, but she was my dearest friend, and if she was to remain so, I'd best learn to live with it. Son was also Mack's best buddy; the four of us were constantly together; and when the Rodgerses' first child came along, Mack and I were named godparents. As the old saw goes, God granted me the wisdom to accept what I couldn't change. Son and I often clashed and sparred, but over the span of twenty-five-plus years, we learned to tolerate each other. There were even times when I became almost fond of him and tried to convince myself that he'd mellowed. Our relationship sat atop a fault line, though, and the ground beneath us could shake at any moment.

This past year the rumblings began, and the earth shifted. Dory and Son faced the empty nest when the youngest of their two boys, Shaw, left for college. Having always been something of a domestic goddess and earth mother, Dory had dedicated her life to her family and flower gardens. She was a certified master gardener, and gardening was the great passion of her life, even more so than Son was. (Or so I told myself.) The empty nest provided the perfect opportunity for her to start a business in landscape design, a lifelong dream. Son, however, had other ideas. Her passion might be gardening, but his was, and always has been, Dory, and he was finally getting her all to himself. He cut way back on his work hours and purchased a small yacht for the two of them to use for the many trips he planned. In what he considered the ultimate thoughtful gesture, he even hired a full-time gardener (whom Dory promptly fired). Without her consent, Dory's days and nights were all mapped out, leaving her little time for her gardens, much less starting up a business. The resulting tension caused the first serious problems in their marriage, and last year was a stress-filled and miserable one. Son pouted and flung fits and carried on like a bigger jackass than usual.

At the first of the summer, when the inevitable blowup came, it was so ugly that Dory, much to my astonishment, kicked Son out. I found myself walking a delicate line between supporting her decision and hiding my joy that she'd seen the light at last. Until I was convinced she was really through with him, however, I kept a low profile. I knew Son would be looking for someone to blame—it couldn't be his fault, after all—and I was a perfect target. In much the same way Elinor Eaton-Yarbrough had done, Son went around telling everyone that I'd talked Dory into leaving him, as he'd feared since she started her volunteer work with me. Hanging around all those divorced women whining about their exes would naturally cause Dory to look for his flaws, he said, hoping his listeners would assure him that she'd have to look long and hard. Dory surprised me even more by sticking to her decision, seemingly content without Son as she got serious about starting the business. Since she planned on working out of her home, she was consulting with Rye on the legalities of licenses and zoning laws. During that time I let her know I was there for her, but I stepped back so she could, at long last, have her own life.

I'll always wonder if I made the right decision. This past summer was a viciously hot one, with thick, waxen days melting into sweltering, sleepless nights. Every afternoon in July, ominous black thunderclouds rumbled in over the bay and teased us with the promise of relief, only to retreat to the Gulf, leaving the air heavier than ever. It left everyone edgy, tense, and expectant, waiting for the inevitable storm to hit. It held off until the last day of July, then roared in with a fury, turning the bay into a cauldron and leaving mighty oaks cowering in its wake. But it broke the heat, and August promised better things. The next morning I called Dory early to ask if she wanted to join Lex and me for a celebratory sunset boat ride, complete with a bottle of champagne. On my return home from work, I played my messages with no premonition of what was to come: Dory, her voice tremulous yet joy-filled, saying that she'd be gone by the time I got her message. Something wondrous, even miraculous, had happened, she'd said breathlessly, and she and Son were driving to Pensacola to hop on a plane to Europe. They'd be away for a month, but she'd explain everything when she returned.

When Dory arrives at Casa Loco, backing into the door of the conference room laden with bags and baskets, my greeting is friendly, cheerful, and upbeat, as though nothing unusual has happened since I last saw her. I don't want her to pick up on my bewilderment, curiosity, or disappointment about her reconciliation with Son—not until we have our talk, anyway. Putting an arm around her and pulling her close, I kiss her cheek and say with a hearty smile, “Hey, Dory! It's great to see you. Welcome back.” With her arms full, she can't do much more than return my greeting and kiss my cheek in return, at which point I pat her back so enthusiastically that she almost trips. Way to go, Clare, I think as I grab some of her baskets. You've paced the floor waiting for her anxiously, she finally gets here, and you knock her down before she can get into the room.

“It's great to see you, too, honey,” is all she says. In contrast to the sappiness of my greeting, hers seems unusually reserved. But it's hard to tell with Dory: One of the things I admire most about her is the air of tranquillity she's always worn like a majestic cloak.

“The table's in place, but everything else I left to you,” I say cheerily as I lead her to the narrow table I pushed against a wall to hold her refreshments. “Want me to put the basket here?”

“Ah … yeah. Sure. Anywhere is fine,” she replies absently. By her bemused expression, I can tell that she finds my enthusiasm a bit much. Even though I, too, cringe at my Pollyanna routine, I can't seem to stop it.

“Do you need anything?” I ask as she places her tote bag and basket on the table, and she shakes her head solemnly.

“Think I brought everything with me, but if not, I know where to find it.” Dory glances around the room with what appears to be only the mildest of curiosities before turning back to me with a serene smile.

I force myself to ask the question and get it out of the way. “So, did you have a good trip to Europe?”

It's a relief when she answers casually, with no details. “We spent most of the time in France, which is beyond fabulous. You and I must go one day. There's so much I'm dying to show you.”

“Umm. I'd love that.” I stop myself from asking her about the gardens she saw, always the main focus of her trips. The questioning can wait until she finishes the refreshment table.