The Time Between

  New American Library Titles by Karen White

  Sea Change

  The Beach Trees

  Falling Home

  On Folly Beach

  The Lost Hours

  The Memory of Water

  Pieces of the Heart

  Learning to Breathe

  The Color of Light

  The Tradd Street Series

  The Strangers on Montagu Street

  The Girl on Legare Street

  The House on Tradd Street

  the time between

  KAREN WHITE

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Harley House Books, LLC, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  White, Karen.

  The time between/Karen White.

  p. cm

  ISBN 978-1-101-61411-2

  1. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. Sisters—Fiction. 4. Edisto Island (S.C.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.H5776T56 2013

  813'.6—dc23 2012050076

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  To my husband, Tim.

  Thank you for your love and patience for the last twenty-five years.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I thank my readers for your enthusiasm and kind words, and for allowing me into your lives. I couldn’t do what I do without you!

  Thanks also to my terrific team at New American Library—sales, marketing, and publicity—who do such a wonderful job of getting my books out there. And to the awesome art department for the remarkable cover on this and all of my books. You always manage to pinpoint the true spirit of a book and create something special every time. And a huge thank-you to my editorial team—Cindy Hwang, Claire Zion, Kara Welsh, and Leslie Gelbman—for your words of encouragement and support. As you know, authors are incredibly thin-skinned, yet you always manage to make me believe that I actually know what I’m doing. Thanks also to my agent, Karen Solem, who has been with me since the beginning.

  To Agnes Joo, Gabi Stevens, Edith Stefel, and Walt Mussell for your generosity of time and your patience with my questions regarding Hungarian phrases and terms. Just please don’t ask me to try to pronounce any of them!

  Thank you to the lovely people of Edisto Island, especially those at the Edisto Bookstore, for all the terrific research materials, and to our excellent tour guide Dottie from Tours of Edisto. You made the island and all its rich history come to life.

  Again, thank you, Diane Wise, RN, MSN, CNM, for your professional insights on pregnancy and childbirth. You’ve helped me with so many books and yet you still cheerfully answer all my questions with patience.

  Thank you to my BFFs and critique partners, Wendy Wax and Susan Crandall. I can’t believe you’re still taking my calls after surviving yet another deadline with me. Thank you for all your hard work on my behalf—and my editor thanks you, too!

  Last, but certainly not least, thank you to my long-suffering family—Tim, Meghan, and Connor. I might not cook for you, but that doesn’t mean I love you any less.

  CONTENTS

  New American Library Titles by Karen White

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  A Conversation with Karen White

  Questions for Discussion

  For time is the longest distance between two places.

  —Tennessee Williams

  CHAPTER 1

  Eleanor

  The first time I died was the summer I turned seventeen. I remember the air being so hot you could smell the pluff mud baking in the sun, the scent sulfur-sweet and strong enough to curl your toes, the tall stems of sweetgrass listless, their tips bowed in submission. Blood sat like melted copper in my open mouth as I rose above my broken body, splayed like a rag doll beside the dirt road. Let me go, I thought as I hovered, weightless. But I felt the pull of a gossamer thread of conscience and retribution that tethered me to this earth. Before I heard the screams of the sirens and my mother’s wailing, I knew I wouldn’t stay dead for long.

  I watched, suspended between this world and the next, as my mother bent over Eve’s body, my sister’s legs bent in ways they shouldn’t have been. Two paramedics worked on her, trying to push my mother away, while another noticed me, my body nearly hidden in the thick underbrush by the side of the road. He squatted next to me, his fingers reaching for the pulse in my neck. I felt none of this. I watched passively, as if I were a spectator in a movie theater.

  I noticed that the paramedic was young, with thick blond hair on his head and muscled forearms that reflected the sunlight and reminded me of the sweetgrass. I was studying him so intently that I didn’t realize that he’d begun to perform CPR. Still I felt nothing. I was more focused on my sister and on my mother, who hadn’t looked in my direction yet. I hadn’t really expected her to.

  And there was Glen, tall and slender and strong, moving between Eve and me, helpless to do anything, his frantic pacing only stirring up dust.

  I heard my name called and thought for a moment it might be my father come to take me away—away from the two broken girls
and screaming mother and the air that moved in hot, thick waves. Flies buzzed and dipped over the thin trail of blood from my open mouth, but I couldn’t hear them or feel them. I was thinking somebody needed to swat them away when I noticed for the first time the wooden church set back behind the trees. When Eve and I had walked our bikes down the dirt road just a short time before, giggling like the little girls we had once been, I hadn’t seen it. It seemed impossible that I couldn’t have.

  The bright, whitewashed walls and tall steeple shone like a benediction in the relentless sunlight. The words PRAISE HOUSE were hand painted over the top of the arched red door, and a fence with a rusty gate swung as if spirits were passing through. It made no sense for the church to be where it was, nestled between the giant oaks and bright green undergrowth. But the white paint glowed in the sun as if brand-new, the wood steps leading up to the front door smooth and worn from the tread of hundreds of feet. Seated on the bottom step was a large woman with skin the color of burnt charcoal, her fingers working her sewing bone through the strands of a sweetgrass basket. She wasn’t looking at me, but I was sure it was she who’d called my name.

  “Who are you?” I wanted to ask, but all I could do was watch her and her fingers and the grass as it was woven into the pattern of the basket.

  Grasping the basket in one hand, she stood and began walking toward where I lay. She stopped for a moment, looking down on me, her shadow blocking the sun from my baking body like the angel of mercy. Slowly she knelt by the paramedic and leaned toward me. He didn’t seem to notice the woman as she bent close to my ear. Her words were clear, and I thought I could feel a cool breeze on my cheek from her breath as she spoke. “All shut-eye ain’t sleep; all good-bye ain’t gone.”

  The pain struck me like a fist as I was pulled back toward earth, down into the body I’d inhabited for seventeen years, and gasped with one long, icy breath. I opened my eyes, meeting the blue eyes of the startled paramedic. I turned my head, searching for the woman, but she and the church were gone. Only the sound of a rusty gate and the lingering scent of the heat-scorched sweetgrass told me that she’d been there at all.

  I heard my mother crying out my sister’s name over and over as I stared up at the clear blue sky, where a white egret circled slowly overhead. All shut-eye ain’t sleep; all good-bye ain’t gone. I didn’t know what she meant, but I reasoned I’d been given another lifetime to figure it out.

  Almost fourteen years later, I was still trying.

  CHAPTER 2

  Glen was waiting for me as I struggled up the peeling porch of our North Charleston house with the grocery bags, the change from my bus fare still clutched in my hand.

  “You’re late,” he said softly as he walked toward me, his long legs and movements as graceful as a dancer’s.

  It was those long legs that had saved Eve’s life—and probably my own—on that hot summer day all those years ago. He’d run for help on those legs, which had made him a track star in high school and the first two years of college. He’d never been mine, even back then. From the first moment Eve saw him at Carolina’s sipping a Coke with fellow Citadel cadets, he’d been hers.

  I smiled at him in the failing light. “Mr. Beaufain needed me to finish a project for him before I left.”

  Glen took one of the bags from me, his fingers lingering on my hand. He was close enough that I could smell his scent and see the damp tendrils of his dark hair that touched the collar of his shirt. He still wore his tie and I wondered if he’d even gone inside yet or had sat here waiting for me.

  “How are you, Eleanor? How are you really? It seems I barely see you anymore.”

  I glanced nervously at the windows. “Don’t,” I said, the word as familiar and sharp as a razor’s blade.

  His voice was quiet so as not to be overheard. “I’m not doing anything to be ashamed of, Eleanor. I would never dishonor you that way.”

  “Don’t,” I said again, turning from him and feeling the stain of his touch and the slow burn of his gaze on my back.

  My mother jerked open the door. “We’ve been worried sick. Where have you been? Your sister is just about starving to death, and I can’t take my medication on an empty stomach.” She took the last bag from my hand as I stole a glance at Glen, who gave me a sympathetic shrug.

  Eve sat in her wheelchair in front of the bay window, where the grand piano had sat for a short time. When we’d lived on Edisto Island, my favorite place had been sitting on the piano bench next to my father, who smelled like the ocean and whose hands were coarse and roughened by shrimp nets and ropes. But his fingers had an elegance to them, holding within them the magic to translate the music from mere piano notes to flesh and blood, a living thing. Without any formal training himself, he taught me how to see the music in my head, to create food for the soul from black marks on a page. He bought books so I could learn how to read music, but his lessons taught me so much more. While my mother traveled with Eve to pageant after pageant, our father made plans for me to attend the Juilliard School in New York.

  Eve glanced up at me. “Hello, Eleanor. We were beginning to wonder if you were going to come home at all.”

  I slid off my jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. I didn’t answer her, afraid to let them know that I had thought of little else as I rode from downtown Charleston with my old friend and coworker Lucy Coakley in her ancient Buick Regal and then in the swaying, lurching bus for the second leg. “I’m sorry. I got held up at work.” Lucy would refuse, but I’d insist on paying her for waiting two hours. I wouldn’t tell them that, either.

  A delicate furrow formed between Eve’s brows. “You should tell Mr. Beaufain that you expect to be paid overtime if he wants you to work past five o’clock.”

  I thought of my boss, not much older than myself, with serious, slate gray eyes and a quiet manner; he sometimes brought me lunch and accepted my early departures and late arrivals without question. He knew I took my sister to her doctor’s appointments, and although I knew nothing of his personal life except that he was divorced and had a young daughter, he seemed to understand everything my absences implied.

  “I’ll try and remember to tell him,” I said, my eyes avoiding hers as my gaze strayed to the bay window behind her. It faced the rear garden once cultivated by my mother, until her arthritis had become too bad. It had gone mostly wild, and I found I liked it that way—liked the way the untamed vines crept around the bowed and chipped lattices like a child clinging to its adoptive mother. It was a symphony of unexpected colors, the bastardized floral arrangements of the uncultivated garden creating new chords that had never been heard before. When I stood in their unplanned perfection, I almost imagined I could hear their music.

  My gaze returned to my sister’s pale, perfect face as she lifted her mouth for Glen’s kiss, her tiny hand with its gold band on the third finger gripping his arm. She was a china doll, with porcelain skin and violet eyes, hair as black as our mother’s had once been, her limbs long and elegant. She wore a lavender silk housedress—made over by Eve from one of her pageant dresses—which set off her eyes and creamy skin. Most people saw only the beauty and the wheelchair and the delicate ankles and useless feet. It made them overlook the steely determination in her eyes and her unforgiving nature. But perhaps I saw them because I was the only one allowed to.

  My mother disappeared into the kitchen, her voice trailing behind her. “Eve will need her bath tonight. She’s had a headache for most of the day, and I know she’ll enjoy one of your good head massages, too.”

  I followed her into the kitchen, already rolling up my sleeves. I wouldn’t have time to change and hoped the smell of frying chicken wouldn’t cling to my work clothes. I had two good skirts that I rotated with five blouses, and I couldn’t imagine the smell of fry grease would be familiar or welcome at the investment firm of Beaufain & Associates.

  I began to mix the flour, salt, and egg for my batter
as Mama washed the chicken in the chipped porcelain sink. I was humming quietly to myself, keeping rhythm with the symphony that always seemed to be playing in the back of my head, when my mother shut off the faucet. She dabbed the chicken dry with a paper towel, her eyes focused on her task. “Are you playing at Pete’s tonight?”

  Dip, flip, roll. I concentrated on covering the chicken with the batter, hoping to hide the slight shake of my hands. “Pete hasn’t called me. I guess they’ve found another piano player who could come more regularly. Besides, Eve needs her bath.”

  The grease popped in the fryer as she blew away a frizzy clump of graying hair from her face. It was only the end of May, but the heat of a Charleston summer had already begun to lay its stifling hand on the city.

  “Eleanor, since when do you wait for him to call you? Just show up and play for a couple of hours. He pays good money. And you can help Eve with her bath in the morning before you leave for work.”

  I wiped my forearm across my forehead, feeling the beads of sweat. “I’m real tired today, Mama. I don’t know.”

  Her silence shouted all the words that hung between us, everything about a hot summer day fourteen years ago and how I’d killed Mama’s dreams.

  “You can take the car,” she said, as if I’d already argued and lost. Which, in a way, I had.

  Dip, flip, roll. “Yes, Mama,” I said, placing the first chicken leg into the fryer and watching its skin bubble in the heat.

  After a nearly silent dinner, I cleared the dishes, then retired to my room to change. I slid on the red satin sheath dress that hugged my body and nestled too low between my breasts. My mother had it made from another one of Eve’s old pageant dresses when she’d discovered that Pete’s Bar, in a nearby North Charleston neighborhood, was looking for a piano player on weekday evenings, somebody who might encourage the down-at-luck crowd to buy one more drink.

  My mother was washing dishes in the kitchen as I came down the stairs, Glen and Eve sitting next to each other on the couch watching television. Eve had her hand on Glen’s arm, and they both looked up at me as I walked to the front door.