The Stories We Carry, page 25
His head turned this way and that, following the lines of the ceiling down the wall, the floor, and the rest of the room. “We’re living in the house that Davis built.”
“If you only knew,” Glory muttered, listening from her seat in a deep-green, brocade parson’s chair. She studied her face from different angles in the cheval mirror near her closet. Rubbing her hands together, she smoothed the lotion over each arm, starting with her wrists. Then she squirted more cream and arced her back to reach it.
Her husband approached her. “Need some help with that?”
She answered by squeezing a glob into his hand.
Eli massaged the lotion into the skin on the back of her bent neck and moved toward the curve of her shoulders, the motion a caress that Glory sensed bespoke of his devotion rather than any sexual overture. His love for her had endured decades of separation, his first marriage, her own initial fears of a romantic relationship. She prayed—Is that what I’m doing—that now, it would sustain them through her lies and confession, as the truth about her past unfolded.
“What made you write it, Glory, since you didn’t want to gain fame and fortune? You could have chosen to put your brother’s name on it, but you didn’t. Why not?”
How do I answer? Glory searched her heart.
“You don’t have to rush to answer.”
“I know, and I appreciate your patient way. But after what I’ve put you through the past twenty-four hours . . .”
He shook his head. “I’ve waited more than once in our relationship for a response to one of my ‘posers,’ and I’m sure this won’t be the last time. I’m too old and too slow to run away, so I might as well show some grace.”
That wasn’t her way—waiting—but their personalities melded together like opposite sides of a penny. That’s about all my thoughts are worth these days. The most important thing he hadn’t had to wait for was her answer to his proposal.
Eli clasped her shoulders with hands now softened and warmed.
Glory smiled affectionately at the reflection of his thinning curls and wrapped her fingers around his. “Maybe you should consider a career change. You’re pretty good at that massage thing.”
He gave her arms another squeeze before walking toward their en suite. “You make it easy, love. Easy and difficult. These hands wouldn’t work on anybody else; my heart wouldn’t beat for anyone else. Not again.”
Her own heart clung to the words trailing behind him, and they pulled her in his direction. She found herself leaning against the doorjamb as he riffled through a drawer. “You’re right, I wasn’t running hard after success and riches when I penned that book of poetry. If I had, I wouldn’t have used a pseudonym and spent the better years of my life hiding out in this backwater.”
“You were only waiting for me.” He winked at her.
Glory watched him search through the morass of medicinal items, wondering at his ability to move past her deception and focus on the day-to-day. How she wanted to come clean with him! She’d buried her past, heaping lie upon lie to cover it, like soil thrown on the dead. But here stood the truth, alive and well, on this side of the dirt, just as Eli had said earlier.
He glanced over his shoulder. “So, you had something to say, and you needed to share it with the world?”
Such questions had plagued her for years. Glory squared her shoulders. “No. Davis did. If he’d wanted to keep it to himself, he would’ve taken his journal with him. But he left it with me when he pulled me from the fire. And I promise, I didn’t plagiarize his words.” Glory shook her head, denying an accusation she’d lodged against herself over the years, not one Eli had spoken.
“I wrote verses that captured what he was thinking at the time. He deserved to be heard, not me, despite what my parents thought and told him most of his life. But I wanted to preserve his privacy without taking the credit. To honor him and thank him for saving my life, for saving my mama’s life. Because I . . .” Glory choked up.
Eli twisted open the cap of a small vial and shook out a tiny pill. He met her gaze head-on. “Because you started the fire. Not your brother. Is that what you were about to say?”
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and nodded.
“I figured as much. I thought a lot about it during church, and I’ve been daring you to admit it with my comments about Davis. You’re a stubborn one, Glory Pryor.” He reached for her hand. “Was that so hard?”
Glory squeezed his fingers and let the tears flow. “I didn’t have the guts to admit that I had started that fire because I was supposed to be the good one, and I was too weak to disappoint them. How could I tell them I destroyed everything they’d worked their whole lives for! I deserved to be thrown out instead of Davis. Admitting the truth was hard at first; then it became impossible. It just seemed easier to let him take the blame without actually pointing the finger—that’s the lie I told myself. Yet, the longer he stayed away, the guiltier I became. I lived in hiding, hoping no one ever showed up who knew me then and who knew the truth. I couldn’t risk it.”
“Then I showed up.”
Her eyes filled. “You were worth the risk.”
“And the book?”
“It was the least I could do for my brother.”
“And he never came forward . . . I wish I could’ve met him.” He shook his head. “And you, as a bookstore owner—as a published author—you know it’s no small feat to do what you did, writing a book, getting it published at a time when your voice wasn’t as welcome as it is now and at such a young age. Have you ever considered writing another volume?”
Perceptive but practical, her husband. Always thinking about next steps. Glory edged past him to fill a small cup with tap water. She handed it to him, looking for a task to busy herself with. Smoke and mirrors that would distract her husband as well.
“Writing poetry isn’t something you ‘consider’ up here.” She tapped her temple with the tip of her index finger. “It takes a move of, of . . .” Glory floundered, hunting for the right word, much as he’d looked for his bottle of hydrochlorothiazide a few moments before.
“Of what? Of God?” Eli sipped and swallowed.
“Now, you know that’s not what I was gon’ say,” she huffed. The accent slipped out, coating her irritated words. Nothing could get under her skin like the mention of an otherworldly leaning. Unlike her parents, Glory professed command of her own mind, body, and spirit, and she believed there was nothing holy about the inspiration for My Former Days. Quite the opposite. It was condemnation and contrition.
Glory stomped from the bathroom, her long, vibrant satin gown shimmering in the glow of the lamps. The wood floors reverberated with each angry step.
This time, it was Eli who trailed behind her and stood silently as she uncharacteristically tossed the dozen pillows to the floor instead of orderly piling them against the wall. He said nothing as she flung back the covers, slipped off her shoes, and climbed into bed. It wasn’t until she pulled the blanket up to her neck that his question quietly, doggedly pursued his wife.
“What were you going to say then?”
It seemed he wouldn’t allow her to hide from him, with the light shining on her, revealing all the lines sure to be creasing her forehead and creating furrows around her mouth. This was so unlike her husband, this determined priming of answers when they weren’t readily pouring forth. It was also unlike her to go to bed angry, especially after sleeping separately the night before and their too-recent reconciliation. That was one Sunday school lesson that had stuck, even if most of the others had slipped away like the lotion from her skin.
More like soaked in, like that same lotion.
Glory shook her head at the persistent voice that was starting to sound too much like her own.
“What’s wrong, baby girl?” Eli sat on his side of the bed.
His kindness nettled her even more; she didn’t deserve it. “I’m not a baby, Eli Pryor. I’m older’n you, in fact,” she growled, fighting the urge to roll on her side and turn her back to him.
“But you’re mine. Always have been, ever since I saw you in the hall of Presby Elementary.”
They’d been six and seven, he an older-than-average, taller kindergartner and she a younger-than-most, petite first grader. His apple had dropped from a hole in his brown paper bag and tumbled down the hallway between the feet of youngsters filing from classrooms toward the cafeteria. Glory had retrieved it, polished it on her gingham dress, and given it back to him.
In the only letter he’d ever written her after moving away four years later, he’d confessed, “The gap in your top row of teeth has forever left a hole in my heart only you can fill.” Glory had kept that sheet of wide-ruled paper under her sweaters even though the faded writing was barely legible.
“Oh, Eli . . .” Glory withdrew her hands and hid her face behind them. She felt the bed sink as he slid beneath the covers, stretched out beside her, and pulled her close.
“Baby girl, it’s alright. I’m here when you’re ready to talk it all out.”
His promise was a whisper in her ear, and it did more to undo her heart than all his pesky, thought-provoking questions.
23
THE SUN’S WEAKENING RAYS were strong enough to catch the iridescent colors in Glory’s dress, turning the midnight-blue fabric dark green and aquamarine in spots as she stepped into the room the former owners called a library. Her happy place.
“Ready to kick up some dirt?” Eli switched on the floor lamp by the piano and angled the shade. He adjusted the bench seat at the piano and sat.
She sighed. “How did I let you talk me into this?” Glory set the brown-wrapped packages on the coffee table.
“Because you love me?” His fingers danced on the keys.
“Oh, yes, that. How could I forget?” Glory knew she didn’t have a leg to stand on, that he’d earned a million yeses with all he’d accepted and forgiven and overlooked. They’d both brought truckloads of baggage into their relatively new marriage, but hers was taking a great deal longer to unpack.
Still, agreeing to take on Adelle Simonette as part-time help asked a lot from her. “This should cut down some of my yeses by a few hundred thousand. At least.”
The music stopped. “What was that about a thousand?”
“Nothing, de-ah. Carry on with your practice. Could I request ‘Moonlight Sonata’?” That was the first piece he’d played for her during their courtship. He didn’t know he’d won her over with the first measure.
“Knock-knock.”
Eli paused again.
“Hey there, Ophelia. Come on in.”
His cousin poked her head between the pocket doors.
Glory grimaced as she fluffed the sofa pillows. She and Eli had less than an hour left of their weekend since he’d arranged for Adelle to come by before the standing Famous Quotes meeting. How’s it already Monday? Perhaps he’s on to something about closing By the Book and spending more time together.
“Hey. I hate to disturb, but I thought you should know before everybody gets here.”
Glory made a circular motion with her hand. “Are you going to share, or should we guess, Ophelia?”
The woman frowned. “Well, I noticed some things missing from the kitchen.”
Eli came to stand beside Glory. “What things?”
“My favorite knife for one, the little one that cuts my pastry perfectly. I kept it in the drawer in the island with all my usual tools.”
“Are you sure—” Glory started.
“Yes, I’m sure, and if I wasn’t, there are a few other things. Like my wallet I stuck behind the counter in the café and my crystal bowl I use for tips. I don’t much care about the change inside it, but the bowl itself was special. Probably the only thing I’ll ever get from my former husband, and that’s includin’ back child support.”
Eli cut an eye at Glory before giving his full attention to his cousin. “Did you say your wallet?”
She knew what he was thinking: Dude.
Ophelia’s red hair shook with the intensity of her hand motions to silence them. “Hold up. That wasn’t my everyday purse, so no license, credits cards, or anything, save for an extra key I kept in it. That’s why I mentioned the knife and the bowl—they’re more special to me. I don’t put them out every day, but I think they were here last week. It’s probably not a big deal to anybody except me, but I thought you should know.”
She backed toward the doors and used her hip to nudge them apart. “I’ll check for anything else that’s missing, but you told me to keep an eye out. Let’s hope they turn up. Bye for now!”
When she disappeared, Glory pinched Eli’s shoulder. “That’s worth another hundred thousand yeses right there!”
He rubbed his arm. “What are you talking about? And that hurt.”
“Never mind that. You had Ophelia keep an eye out because you expect there to be more things ‘missing.’” Glory’s fingers formed air quotes. “You still think Dude is stealing from us, don’t you?”
“No. I asked her to look around, hoping she found the book. Of course I had to explain why.” He shrugged. “But . . . he has been in the store twice, left unsupervised, and things have come up missing.”
Glory couldn’t help but picture Davis being mistreated somewhere because of how he looked or where he lived—or didn’t live. “Do I have to point out to you again how many people are left unsupervised in our store, besides the guests who troop through here daily? I can’t believe you!”
“What? You can’t believe I’m trying to protect my wife?”
Glory stalked over to the window and stared out at the backyard, hoping to forestall her growing ire. The leaves had started to change, and the long summer days were behind them, which is exactly where she wanted this discussion: behind them. “I told you, Eli—”
“Oh, so I’m supposed to trust this one thing you told me, as opposed to all the other things you didn’t. That more than likely, you still haven’t.”
“There it is. There it is. I knew it was too good to be true, all that I forgive you, I understand, I love you, business. Tell me when you’re ready, you said. Well, I’ve carried this burden by myself my whole life. Why should I just hand it over to you after a few years? It’s not like you don’t have your own mess, Mr. Pryor.
“You don’t know where your fantasy daughter is, but I don’t hear you blaming your old girlfriend. You blame me for keeping you from her! You accuse me of hiding my past, but you’re abandoning us for something that may not exist. If you’re so dissatisfied, you should disappear again . . . for longer than a few hours!” Suddenly the need to defend herself supplanted her desire to defend Dude. Glory was used to self-condemnation, but she wouldn’t take it from anyone else—particularly not the man she’d pledged to love and cherish.
“Hey . . . I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have company.” There was a belated tap on a pocket door, for Ophelia had already pushed it aside and stuck her nose in. She widened the space and ushered in Adelle and Bennett. Ophelia followed them, set down a snack plate, and ducked out again.
The younger woman waved cheerily. “Is this a good time?”
Listening at the door, Adelle didn’t know what to think. She’d come to Gilmore to cause the very thing Glory appeared to be doing on her own: losing what she loved and what she didn’t deserve. Grace and mercy in reverse. She told herself, Check One.
Glory marched toward her and Bennett. “It’s a fine time, Ophelia. I’ll ready things for the meeting. Eli can get started here with you.” She bent low at the last second and smiled. “Would you like to come with me to the kitchen if Mommy says it’s okay?”
“How can I say no?” Adelle responded lightly but honestly. She had to swallow her irritation when her son took the other woman’s hand and left without a second look, his backpack swinging from his hand. When she turned toward Eli, she found him at the piano.
“Is everything okay? I know we interrupted something. If I got the time wrong . . .” Knowing she hadn’t, Adelle made a show of glancing at her watch.
Eli’s laugh was brief and humorless. “Glory and I were just having a discuss—no, a disagreement, obviously. But it’s okay.”
Adelle waited to see if he would say more. She felt for this kind man but didn’t want to pry. Seeing justice done shouldn’t mean he had to suffer.
Eli moved away from the piano. “So, you’re willing to work for us, despite the occasional marital fireworks?”
She pursed her lips. “Ben and I had our moments, but he said healthy disagreements were like workouts. They broke down the muscles to build up the muscles, or something along those lines.” Adelle would’ve given anything to argue with Ben again—about parenting, his travel, how she was always running late . . . Anything.
“Thank you. Have a seat.”
As much as Adelle wanted to celebrate their argument, the Peacemaker within her wouldn’t allow it. Dear Lord, she prayed and sighed, “Why don’t you go after your wife and . . . I don’t know . . . try and resolve whatever it is. Weeds grow when left untended. Don’t take any moment for granted, from widow to former widower.” What in the world, Adelle? But she knew it wasn’t her doing. It was His.
Eli bowed his head. When he looked up, he grinned genuinely this time. “Thanks. I will. Be back in a sec.” He strode through the parted doors.
Adelle moved about the room, picking up one book after another. It was apparent that Glory took the title happy place to heart. Not a sad story to be found in this room. And lots of sheet music, art history books, and picture books. She was surprised the joyful atmosphere hadn’t snuffed out the Pryors’ argument.
What are those brown packages? she wondered, noticing the table. Figuring she’d learn during the meeting, she walked to the window, where Glory was standing when Adelle had interrupted them. She counted the birds along the back fence, partly shielded by the trees leaning over it. Between its branches, Adelle gazed upon distant hills and an industrial tower of some sort. In another month or so, the thinner foliage would provide a clearer view.
