Queen of Broken Hearts (31 page)

“Great timing, darling,” he mutters, reaching in his pocket for another cigarette as Dory laughs, throwing her head back. An exquisite white cashmere shawl is draped around her shoulders, and she pulls it close against the cool breeze as she regards us slyly, crossing her arms.

“Oh, were you about to make a move, Rye?” she mocks, eyes dancing. “Don't let me stop you. I'm on your side, remember?”

“Has she said anything about me?” I ask him suspiciously.

Rye reaches out and pushes an errant strand of hair behind my ear, smiling. “It's the other way around, my dear. Dory knows how I feel about you.”

“Dory needs to mind her own business,” I say testily.

“It's too cold out here for you two to be making out, anyway,” she goes on, unperturbed. “Wait till after the party. But for now let's go back inside. The band's starting up again, and Haley's fine. Austin went home, saying he was tired. That's the other reason I was looking for you. Is something going on with him?”

I sigh as the three of us walk across the terrace, Rye between Dory and me with an arm around each of us. The moment of passion has passed between me and Rye, and his arm on my shoulder is companionable again.

“I don't know,” I say, “but I intend to find out.”

Son meets us at the door, his face alight with excitement. I recognize the telltale signs of his having had too much to drink, the lurching walk, the glazed eyes. “I was coming to get you all,” he says, slurry-voiced. “Boy howdy, Jasmine's on a tear tonight. First she jumps Austin, and now she's telling off one of her brothers-in-law. I can't tell if it's Derrick or Shawn, but she's giving him an earful.”

“Yeah, Son, they all look alike, don't they?” I mutter wearily.

Dory pushes past Son to see what's going on, and we follow her into the warmth of the dining room. “Oh, Lord,” she says. “It's Derrick, and Jasmine's giving him a piece of her mind. Wonder what
that's
about?”

“You know,” I say. “Remember Etta told us how the family feels about Jasmine and Tommy?”

“The Ton of Fun?” Son says. “Jasmine's folks are not too hot on the idea of her bringing a big fat white guy into the family tree. Ha! R.J.'s about to shit a brick. Can't say as I blame him. Me, I wouldn't want my daughter with somebody like Tubby Tommy.”

“You don't have a daughter,” Dory reminds him dryly.

He turns his bleary eyes to Rye. “Be glad you never had kids, man. When they're little, they step on your toes; when they grow up, they step on your heart.”

“I never knew you were such a philosopher, Son,” I say. “Looks like Jasmine and Tommy are leaving. Poor Etta. She was so excited about everybody being here for R.J.'s birthday.”

“The joys of family life,” Dory says.

“Etta's planning a big lunch for R.J. tomorrow,” I say with a sigh. “Sure hope this doesn't spoil it for her.”

Hands on hips, Son surveys the scene. “Naw. If Etta's survived almost fifty years of marriage and three kids, she can live through anything.”

I surprise myself as much as the three of them by clapping Son on the back with a grin. “For once in your life, Son Rodgers, you may actually have said something profound.”

Rye is unusually quiet on the ride home after the party, and I steal a couple of glances at him, puzzled by his introspection. His behavior has been out of character all night. Unlike Mack, Rye has never been given to brooding or dark moods. One of the reasons I like being with him is his flippant banter, which keeps everything easygoing and uncomplicated between us. After Dory interrupted the almost-kiss on the terrace, he and I rejoined the party with ease, lapsing back into the comfortable companionship we've always had. When the band returned from their break, we danced until midnight without awkwardness or uneasiness. He held me close during the slow dances, whispered his usual outrageous flattery in my ear, and chuckled when I blushed. From time to time, both of us danced freely with others. Or rather, Rye did. Once I fast-danced with Son after he grabbed my hand and pulled me to the floor when the band struck up a jazzy version of “The Twist.” I was surprised that he remembered: At Bama, Mack and I went with him and Dory to a party at Son's frat house, where Chubby Checker entertained. Since Mack and Dory wouldn't fast-dance, Son and I entered the twist contest and came away with a first-place trophy.

After doing the twist with Son, I was surprised when Lex led me to the floor—until I saw Elinor dancing with Rye. Even so, she kept her eyes fastened on Lex and me. After the song was over, she came after him with her purse and wrap in hand, saying he'd been out too late. Lex protested that his doctors had released him from the recovery regime, but he allowed her to lead him away. When they stopped to say goodbye to Son and Dory, Elinor slipped her arm around Lex's waist and snuggled close, with her gleaming blond head on his shoulder. As they walked to the door hand in hand, I rolled my eyes Dory's way, and she smirked.

When Rye pulls to a stop in front of my house, he turns to me and says, “Sorry I kept you out past your bedtime. You're exhausted, aren't you?”

“I am.” He looks tired, too, even somewhat sad, and I squeeze his hand. “Stay put, Sir Galahad. I can walk myself to the door.” When he protests, as I knew he would, I lean over and kiss him lightly on the cheek, then reach for the car door. “Good night, sweet prince. I had a lovely time.”

“I was proud of you,” he says. “You did really well at the ceremony, and you couldn't have been nicer to the Son King. No one there knew that you'd gone under such duress.”

“We both did good, didn't we?” We look at each other and smile wearily. “But what choice did we have? We had to do it for Dory.”

“Maybe Son's conversion was the real thing,” he says in wonder. “He was sure on his best behavior.”

“I'll give him a month.” When Rye chuckles, I repeat my good nights and turn to open the door.

He takes my arm to stop me. “You don't want me walking you to the door, do you? You're afraid I might ask to stay.” Aghast, I open my mouth to protest, but he puts a finger over my lips. “Shhh. It's okay. I saw that Dory embarrassed you on the terrace tonight.”

“I can't believe the stuff she's saying. She knows how things are with you and me, and that we're close friends because it's the way we want it.”

He regards me steadily, then says, “This summer I told you I was ready for that to change. More than ready. But I wasn't sure if you understood what I was saying.”

In spite of my discomfort, I can't help but smile. “Come on, Rye. What part of ‘Sweetheart, I'd like for you to consider marrying me' do you think I failed to understand?”

“Since you cruelly dismissed me with a laugh, I wasn't sure.”

I lower my eyes, abashed. It's true; earlier this summer, when Rye walked me to the door after one of our nights of dinner and dancing, he kissed me lightly on the lips, like he always did, and made his startling suggestion that I marry him. I replied that there was no way I'd have the broken heart of every woman in Fairhope on my conscience, then went into the house, leaving him standing on the porch alone. I felt badly about it, but I'd been so flustered, I wasn't thinking straight. Until now, neither of us has mentioned it.

“You've been such a dear since the first time we met, Rye,” I say finally. “If it hadn't been for you that first night I came to Fairhope, I probably would have run all the way back to Panama City.”

“Ha. I'll never forget that night—Mack bringing his fiancée to Papa Mack's to meet the whole family. What a nightmare for you.”

I smile in remembrance. “I was terrified. They were so grand and so snooty. I assumed Mack had exaggerated his bitchy stepmonster, Aileen, but no. And his dad! I'd never seen a father and son with such a bad relationship. Since my big, boisterous family was so different, the Ballengers were like something out of one of my abnormal-psychology books. And that was before I met Zoe Catherine.”

Rye chuckles. “That was your reaction, understandably, but mine was the opposite. I was thrilled. I thought a poised, confident young therapist-to-be was exactly what Mack needed, and was bound to help the whole crazy bunch of us.”

“If I appeared poised and confident, it was an illusion, believe me.”

His eyes grow dreamy, and he says, “God, how I envied Mack, having found you. But I also felt bad for you, knowing what you were marrying into.”

I squeeze his hand and say softly, “You and I hit it off instantly, didn't we? Like we'd known each other all our lives. You could've been the big brother I always wanted to have. Every time I worried about marrying into such a family and moving to Fairhope, I thought about you and knew I could do it. I never told you that, but there it is.”

Our eyes lock, and he says, “You know the problem with you thinking of me as a big brother?” Before I can answer, he murmurs, “This.” He reaches over to take my face in his hands. This time his kiss is far from a brotherly one, and I'm shaken and breathless when he releases me. Without looking at me, he leans over, opens the door, and says, “Good night, my dear.” Flustered, I swallow hard, then stumble out of the car and hurry to the safety of my house, like Cinderella running from the ball.

Early the next morning, Dory is at my back door. I've slept later than usual, and I stand with my robe clutched around me and blink sleepily at the sight of her silhouetted in the sunlight. She appears to be as surprised to see me as I am her, and she cries, “What are you doing here?”

“In case you've forgotten, I live here.”

“But I thought you'd be at Rye's!”

“Oh? And thinking me not home, you came over here to snoop around, maybe?”

At least she looks somewhat embarrassed. “Well, no—I saw Rye's car at his house and figured you were there. But I had to come by your house on my way to church, so I thought I'd stick my head in the door and see for sure.”

I stare at her, aghast. “I'm telling Father Gibbs on you. What will he think of you? The very day after you renew your wedding vows, you're out spying on your friends, hoping to catch them in bed together.”

She leans against the door frame, since it's apparent that I'm not going to ask her in. “So you were in your own bed last night, and Rye in his. Damn! He'd asked me to put in a good word for him, but I guess I was too subtle.”

“Dory, you're a lot of things, but subtle ain't one of them. And what's this about putting in a good word for Rye—were you trying to be Miles Standish to his John Smith? Or whoever the hell that was. That's so crazy. Rye can speak for himself.”

“Best I recall, he did last summer. And you turned him down. Which proves you're the one that's crazy, not me. The only men I know who are that good-looking, funny, sensitive, and sweet are gay.”

“Unlike you, I do not need a man to make my life complete.”

“Maybe not to make your
life
complete, but …” Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head sadly. “I can't believe you've got two men on the string, yet you aren't sleeping with either of them.”

My laugh is a mixture of exhaustion and exasperation. “Between you and Zoe Catherine, who needs Dr. Ruth? Do either of you ever think about your own sex life?”

“I don't know about Zoe, but when I do my meditations, what do you think I'm meditating about?”

I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “Jesus Christ!”

“Speaking of which, I'm on my way to the early church service, so guess I'd better go.” She's dressed sedately in heels and pearls, her hair still twisted into the prim little chignon at the nape of her neck. She gives me a hug, then starts down the front steps, where I stop her.

“If you like Rye so much, why don't you leave Son and marry him yourself?” I can't resist asking her.

She shakes her head. “I adore Rye, but if I were to leave Son, I'd have a go at your Yankee boyfriend. Although he appears to be a big old teddy bear, I think he's hot.”

“If I thought you'd leave Son, I'd fix you two up in a New York minute.”

Instead of laughing, as I expected, her expression is serious as she studies me. “I'm only halfway teasing you about this, Clare. The truth is, it breaks my heart to see what's happened to you since Mack died. He made you afraid to love again, didn't he?”

“And you call me Madame Freud?” I say with a dismissive wave.

“The problem is, you won't allow anyone to love you, either. And that's what I'm worried about.” But she turns and hurries down the steps before I can come up with a good response.

Almost a week after the anniversary party, I find sheer chaos at Haley's house, and I stand in the door for a moment before taking a deep breath and entering. Welcome to the house of horrors, I think with a wry smile.

Since Halloween is coming up, Haley is making decorations and costumes for the kids, and every available space—floor, table, desktop, counters—is cluttered with black and orange construction paper, crepe paper, black or white material, masks, wigs, fangs, paint, scissors, tape, and glue. Every holiday on the calendar is a high-feast day for Haley and her kindergarten students, but especially Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. “Hey!” I call out. “Anybody here?”