The Wedding Tree (35 page)

matt

H
ope was wearing that thing I first saw her in, that sheer floaty gown from the 1940s, and we were in the diner in Mississippi, dancing like Fred and Ginger. We were doing all these wonderful, graceful, spontaneous moves—twists and dips and swings and what all. As the music slowed, I stretched her on a table—but then the lighting changed and the room kind of twirled and the table became a bed. The bed rotated and somehow so did we, so that she was behind me, spooning. She was warm and soft, and her arm was draped across my chest.

Something jarred me a little, pulling me up from the depths of sleep into shallower dream waters. I sighed and tried to fall back into the dream, imagining Hope was snuggled against me, and her hand was moving down my chest . . . down my belly . . . down to my cock, which immediately hardened.

My eyes jerked open. This was no dream. My sweatpants were loosened and a hand was closed around my penis, stroking up and down. Pleasure poured through me. Hope must have sneaked back into the house and into bed with me.

“This is quite a pleasant surp . . .” I rolled toward her, and the moonlight slanting through the window hosed my dream—and my erection—like cold water.

The face on the pillow wasn't Hope's; it was Jillian's.

“What—what the hell are you doing?” I gasped.

“Let me love you, Matt.” She rose on an elbow, still reaching for my crotch.

I gripped her wrist and twisted away.

“It's okay,” she purred. “It won't take away from your love for Christine. It can be so wonderful if you'll just let it happen.”

“Stop it!” I scooted to the edge of the bed and switched on the light.

“You're upset.”

I could barely bring myself to look at her. When I did, I wished I hadn't. She was wearing some low-cut nightgown that looked like it came from Frederick's of Hollywood. “Hell yes, I'm upset!”

“Matt, I can make you love me. I can love you enough for both of us until you do. I love the girls, and they need a mother. I'll be good for you. I can make you feel everything you felt with her, I swear it.”

“Jillian, I don't want . . .” What the hell was I supposed to say? I ran a hand down my face and searched for the right words. “Look—I don't feel that way about you.”

“You could if you'd give me a chance. You wanted me a moment ago. You were hard in my hand.” She slid off the bed and onto her knees before me. Holy Moses—was she trying to go down on me? “Jesus, Jillian! Stop it!” I moved across the room to my dresser.

“Daddy?” I heard the door rattle. Apparently Jillian had locked it. Thank God for that. But still—Sophie was standing outside!

I adjusted my sweatpants and tried for a normal fatherly tone. “Are you feeling okay, honey?”

“Yes. But I heard voices. Is Aunt Jillian in there with you?”

Christ. What the hell was I supposed to do? If I lied to her, she could just walk down the hall and find Jillian's bed empty. She might have done that already. I opened my dresser, grabbed a T-shirt and pulled it on while Jillian wrapped herself in the bathrobe she'd apparently worn to my room. I strode to the door and opened it. Sophie stood there, sucking her thumb. She peered around me and waved at Jillian.

Great, just great. She'd tell her grandparents, and everything would turn into a big ugly mess. “Jillian came in just a moment ago because, uh, she was, uh, feeling bad.”

“Oh,” Sophie's eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. She looked at Jillian. “Is it 'cause Zoey lied?”

“What?” I asked.

“She acted sick when she wasn't. My friend Savannah said that if you pretend to be sick when you're not, someone you love will get sick for real.”

“Oh, no, honey.” Jillian moved to the girl and took her in her arms. “That's not right. It's not Zoey's fault. I'm fine.”

“But Daddy said you were sick.”

Anger, cold and fierce as an arctic blizzard, blew through me.

“I had a bad dream that made me feel bad, but now I'm okay,” Jillian said. “And Savannah's wrong. It doesn't work that way.”

“Hold on a minute, Sophie,” I said. “Zoey pretended to be sick this evening?”

She nodded, her eyes downcast. “We wanted Jillian to stay the night so she'd fix blueberry pancakes in the morning.”

I looked at Jillian. The stricken look on her face confirmed all my suspicions.

Sophie's eyes filled with tears. “I didn't mean to get Zoey in trouble.”

It took all of my control to keep my voice calm. “Nobody's going to get in trouble, but I'm going to talk to Zoey. And neither of you should ever do this again, understand? Not because it'll make other people sick, but because it's not honest.”

She nodded.

“Come on, sport. I'll tuck you back into bed.”

I came out of the girls' bedroom a few minutes later to find Jillian sitting on the side of the bed in the guest room.

I couldn't bring myself to look directly at her. “Get dressed, get your things, and come downstairs,” I ordered.

I changed out of my sweatpants and into a pair of jeans, then
went to the kitchen, reached in the cabinet, and poured a stiff drink of bourbon. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so angry.

Jillian came into the kitchen a few minutes later, looking pale and shaken. “Matt, I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted . . .”

I took a gulp of bourbon. It burned all the way down my throat. “It's pretty clear what you wanted.”

Tears spilled down her face. “I can't help it, Matt. I love you. We would be so perfect together. I thought that if I could break through your defenses, then you'd see that.”

The bourbon's warmth spread to my brain. Maybe the bourbon had been a bad idea. I certainly didn't feel any calmer. “So you told my daughter to lie to me?”

“I made sure she didn't say anything untruthful. She just said she was ready to go to bed.”

“You coerced her into deliberately misleading me.”

She looked at the floor. “That was wrong. I admit that. But, Matt—I can tell I'm running out of time. I've researched when a man is most likely to fall in love after the death of a spouse, and most widowers with small children are either in a serious relationship or married by now. You're ripe for the picking, and you're getting more and more attached to Hope, and she's going to leave, and then you and the girls will just be sad again. I thought if I could reach you before you and she . . .” Her voice broke off in a sob. She put her hands to her face. “. . . before you went too far with her.”

Too late
. But where the hell did she get the idea things worked like that?

She took a step toward me. “I know that you miss Christine. And I know that I'm not her. But I can make you happy. I know I can.”

I held up both my hands, palms out. “Jillian . . . look. I just don't think of you that way.”

“I know, I know, and that's the problem! You've got the sense of taboo because I was your sister-in-law, but that's just
ridiculous
.” She spit the word out as if it were rotten fruit. “You and I—we're
not blood kin. And anyway, in the Old Testament, men are supposed to marry their widowed sisters-in-law, so this is the same thing.”

I stared at her.
She convinced my daughter to lie to me, she woke me from a sound sleep with a hand job, she's saying the Bible says I'm supposed to marry her—and
I'm
ridiculous?
I took another swig of bourbon. Had she always been crazy, or was this a new development?

She took a step toward me, her eyes pleading. “There's nothing wrong with us being a couple—nothing wrong, and everything right. I thought that if I could get you to lower your inhibitions and see how wonderful things could be, well, then your feelings about me would change.”

I held up my hands again. “Stop right there. Don't come any closer. Listen to me, Jillian, because I only want to say this once: If I had never met your sister, and if I'd never met Hope, I still would not be romantically interested in you. There's nothing wrong with you—you're a terrific woman, Jillian—but the chemistry's just not there.”

“But . . .”

“There are no buts to this. For me, there is no chemistry. None. Nothing. Nada.
Rien
. You need to accept it and move on. All of this . . .” I waved my glass, trying to encompass the whole scenario. “. . . well, it's just embarrassing.”

She put her face in her hands and sobbed. I pulled a paper towel off the roll and handed it to her. The crying went on and on. I kept my physical distance.

“You okay?” I finally asked.

“I've never felt so humiliated in all my life,” she sputtered.

“Yeah, well, I'm not so comfortable right now, either.” I tried to lighten the mood. “I think we just raised the word ‘awkward' to a whole new level.”

She didn't smile as I'd hoped she would. She dabbed at the tears running down her face.

“Look,” I said. “Let's just put this behind us. Go home and get some sleep.”

“You won't tell . . .”

Who? Her parents? “God, no. This is just between us. We both need to put this out of our minds.”

“I don't think I can ever face you again. And the girls . . .” Fresh tears filled her eyes.

“It'll be okay. We'll just act normal, and after a while, it'll go back to feeling that way.” I picked up her purse and handed it to her. “You okay to drive?”

She nodded again.

“All right. Take it easy. And look—as far as I'm concerned, this never happened. I've already forgotten about it.”

I watched until she climbed into her car and pulled out of the drive, then closed the door and leaned against it. Some things were easier said than done, and I was afraid that forgetting about this was one of them.

hope

O
ver the next week, I threw myself into clearing Gran's house, working on the coffee shop mural, and helping plan Gran's secret send-off party. Matt was working long hours in Baton Rouge, preparing for a trial. When I had a spare moment, I scoured the Internet, tracking down Joe Madisons in the Sacramento area.

Problem was, there must be about a million of them. I didn't know if I was searching in the right city or even the right state—after all, Gran's last information about him was sixty-something years old. I didn't even know if he was still alive.

I'd phoned every airline listed as operating in the United States, asking if they'd had a pilot named Joe Madison who'd worked for them thirty years ago (I figured that the more recent the records, the better the odds that airlines might still have them), and every one of them told me they couldn't access files that old and that even if they could, they wouldn't release that information. I'd sent e-mails and even a snail-mail letter to each airline, asking them to please forward it to any Joe Madison pilots who might have worked for them.

“I can't find a single lead,” I told Matt when he showed up in the backyard Thursday evening, the first week in May.

He pushed the swing with his feet. “I talked to someone I know, who put me in touch with a private detective.”

“I can't afford a private detective.”

“I can.”

My heart turned over. I couldn't believe he would offer something like that. It was the kind of thing you'd do for family, or your oldest, closest friend. Not someone who was leaving in a few weeks and would be out of your life forever.

“That's really sweet, Matt, but I don't want you to do that.”

“Why not? I want to help.”

“Well, as Zoey would say, ‘it's not 'propriate.'”

“According to who?”

“Me.”

I thought the subject was closed. Matt and I continued to meet in the evenings after the girls and Gran were in bed—we'd usually talk in the swing, and then end up rendezvousing in the shed—but Tuesday the following week, he showed up at Gran's front door shortly after dinner, accompanied by a elegant elderly woman with high cheekbones and white hair styled in a French twist. She wore a simple navy dress and red lipstick. “I hope it's not too late to be paying a call on your grandmother,” Matt said.

“Not at all. She and I were just going through some old albums.”

“Good. Because I have someone here I think she'll want to meet.”

Matt looked me in the eye, and I knew this woman was somehow connected with Joe. My heart started pounding in my chest.

“Who is it, dear?” Gran called from the living room.

“Matt. And a . . . a visitor.”

“Well, invite them on in.”

I must have opened the door and stepped out of the way, although I don't really remember doing it, then led them into the living room. “Miss Addie,” Matt said, “this is Viola Madison.”

The woman stepped forward. Gran rose from her chair and extended a hand, and the woman took it in both of hers. “Adelaide? It's such a delight to finally meet you. I've heard so many wonderful things about you.”

“Who on earth from, dear?”

“Why . . . from Joe.”

“Joe?” Gran put her hand on her chest. “Joe Madison?”

“Yes, dear. I'm his widow.”

•   •   •

“Oh. Oh my.”

I ran to Gran's side, alarmed, and helped ease her into her chair. “Are you okay?”

She sat there, her hand still on her chest. “Yes. Yes, dear.” Her eyes were fixed on the woman's face. “Joe's gone?”

“Yes. He died six years ago. A heart attack.”

“But the flowers—” Gran suddenly broke off. She bit her lip, as if she realized she'd said something she maybe shouldn't have said.

“What flowers?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Gran's hand flapped the question away.

“It's okay. I know all about them,” Viola said gently. “Joe's attorney sends them.”

“What flowers?” I repeated.

“Tulip bulbs.” Gran's voice was thin and breathy. “Every spring they'd come. Charlie thought I ordered them, but . . .”

An image flashed in my mind—tulips flaming in the front yard every March, then disappearing, leaves and all, to await another spring.

As luck would have it, Hannah was the aide on duty. She looked at Gran and Viola, then back again. “I think you-alls need a drink.” She scurried into the kitchen.

“Joe arranged for you to receive the bulbs every spring for the rest of your life,” Viola said.

“Oh, my. And you—you knew?”

“Yes.” Viola's eyes creased as she smiled. “You were the reason he married me.”

The conversation was interrupted by Hannah returning with a bottle of wine and a mismatched assortment of juice glasses. She poured all of us a glass, then took one for herself and sat down on a cane chair in the corner, actively listening. This time, no one bothered to shoo her away.

“I don't understand,” Gran said. “How . . . ? When . . . ?”

“I was a stewardess. I was crazy about him—we all were. He was so dashing and handsome and charming. I was thoroughly in love with him, but he wouldn't settle down. Claimed there was only one woman he would ever marry.” She took a sip from her juice glass. “I was with him right after you told him he should marry someone else and start a family of his own—and, well, I scooped him up on the rebound. We were married within two months.”

“Oh my.” Gran sat back, her eyes wide. “Did you have a good marriage?”

“In our own way.” Her lips curved in a small, wry smile. “We loved each other, and we were willing to overlook each other's . . . flaws, I guess you'd call them.”

Gran stared at her, her mouth open. She abruptly closed it, then opened it, but no words came out.

“Joe was a wonderful man in many ways,” Viola continued, “but he had an insatiable craving for novelty and excitement.”

“He did like an adventure,” Gran mused.

“He always wanted what he couldn't have.” Viola took a long draught of wine. “He had a roving eye, you know. Pardon me for saying this, but . . .”

“But what?” Adelaide urged.

“Well, it's not my place.”

“Please.” Gran leaned forward. “Tell me whatever you can.”

“Well, through the years, I've often wondered if he could have been faithful to you, if he'd married you. Forgive me for saying it, but I have my doubts.”

Gran sat perfectly still, unmoving as a rock, for several long moments.

I leaned forward, about to ask if she was all right. Matt put a reassuring hand on my arm.

“You know,” Gran said at length, “that very same thought crossed my mind. I never really allowed myself to ponder it much; I didn't want to, because I didn't want to spoil the notion of a grand romance. But deep down, I think I had the same doubts.”

I sat there for a moment, stunned. I'd been so caught up in the tragedy of the thwarted lovers that it never had occurred to me it might not have worked out.

But Gran was right. The character traits that made Joe so exciting as a young beau would not necessarily have made him a good husband. How could one woman hold the interest of a man who was always in search of the next conquest, the next adventure?

Gran leaned forward. “Did Joe . . . Did you two have children?”

Viola's lovely face, so composed until now, fell. She shook her head. “Lord knows we wanted them. That's why Joe married me—to start a family. But it turns out Joe had the mumps when he was overseas, and it left him sterile.” She polished off her wine. “But . . . he had Becky.”

“It's a such shame he didn't know her.”

“Oh, but he did.”

The color drained from Gran's face. “What?”

“He followed her progress through school and college, and when she got a job, he became a client.”

“He . . . met her?” Her voice was a raspy whisper. “When she was grown?”

“Yes. Oh, she never knew he was her father, of course. But she was his investment advisor. He would go to Chicago and take her to lunch.”

Gran's hand flew to her chest again.

“You see, Joe did quite well for himself. He took all of his back pay from the service for the years he was a POW and invested it in IBM and Xerox when they first started. He made quite a fortune. He had a real knack for wheeling and dealing.”

“I knew he had a sharp mind,” Gran said. “Becky took after him that way.”

“He was very proud of Becky. Loved to say she's the one who really made his fortune. He always gave her a generous Christmas ‘bonus.' She refused to take it, so he started sending it to her anonymously.” She grinned. “Much like he sent you the tulip bulbs.”

“Oh my.” My grandmother's hands fell to her lap.

“As for Becky, I believe she always gave her gift to charity.”

Gran nodded. “That sounds like Becky. She wouldn't do anything that wasn't on the up-and-up.”

“Well, that brings me to the topic I really came here to discuss.” Viola set down her juice glass.

“Good heavens—what more could there be?”

“Joe made provisions for Becky or her heirs in his will. He didn't want to cause problems or scandal for you, Adelaide, so it specifies that the funds could only be dispersed after your death—or in the event that Becky learned of her true parentage. Since Becky is gone and Hope knows the truth, well, the criteria is met. So I've brought her a copy of the part of the will that pertains to her.”

She reached into her bag—I think it was Prada, although I'm not as knowledgeable of expensive bags as my ex was; he said you could identify clients with the means to purchase serious art by the handbags they carried, although I've had friends who've gone into hock to buy a bag, so to me, an expensive one just means a person's shelled out a lot for one item—or maybe even bought a fake. I had a friend who used to buy fakes.

But that had nothing to do with what was going on here. My ADHD flibbertigibbet mind was off on a tangent, because I was having a hard time processing what Viola was saying. I forced myself to focus as she pulled out a manila envelope and held it out to me.

“My attorney wants you to call him after you've had a chance to read through this.”

I gingerly took the envelope. I almost didn't expect it to feel solid, the moment seemed so surreal. “I—uh—this isn't necessary,” I stuttered.

“Nonsense. Joe wanted you to have it. For what it's worth, Hope, Joe kept tabs on you, too. We have one of your sketches hanging in our living room.”

Now I really felt as if I were having an out-of-body experience.
“But . . . how? My art was never really for sale.” My ex-husband had refused to carry any of it in the gallery. He said it cheapened our collection.

“From a college exhibition your senior year.”

He'd bought my college art? “He—he knew where I went to college?”

“Oh, yes, honey. He flew in to see that exhibit.”

My heart felt strangely warm. A grandfather I'd never known had been watching out for me?

“It's the pen-and-ink of a little wren in an azalea bush. I think it's marvelous.”

I'd always loved drawing birds. I felt my face heat. “Thanks,” I mumbled.

Gran and Viola talked some more, but I had trouble following the conversation. Hannah's evening replacement arrived and she resisted leaving, but I wasn't really jarred out of my dazed state until Viola stood, took both of Gran's hands, and promised to stay in touch. She kissed me on the cheek and told me the same. I walked with her to the foyer.

“Just one thing before you go.” Gran had risen and was scooting her walker forward. “However did you handle it? Weren't you jealous?”

Viola paused. “Oh, I admit, it bothered me sometimes—especially when we learned Joe couldn't father any more children. But I knew what I was getting into when I married him. I made a conscious decision that I'd rather have as much of Joe as I could than have none of him at all.” She smiled. “You were the one woman he couldn't have, so of course you were the one he always wanted.” She walked out the door, toward a large town car waiting at the curb.

Matt went with her. A uniformed driver got out and opened the door, and Matt helped her in. I waved as the car pulled away from the curb.

Matt returned to the house, and we both went back in the parlor.

“Open the envelope, Hope!” Gran urged.

I realized I still held it in my hand. I walked over and passed it to her. “It belongs to you.”

“Oh heavens, no, dear! I promised Charlie I wouldn't take a dime from Joe, and I'm not going to start now. Besides, what does an old woman like me have to spend it on?” She thrust the envelope at me. “That's yours. Joe intended it for Becky and her heirs—and that's you, dear. I won't hear another word about it.”