The Sound of Glass Page 21

  C.J. chewed thoughtfully. “Was I alive back then? I don’t think I remember that.”

  “You were almost four,” Edith said quietly, watching him closely. She’d never spoken of that night to him, not wanting him to recall any memories that might still linger, or bring his nightmares into the daylight. And she’d never mentioned that it had happened on the night his father’s car crashed into a tree, because that would have invited the questions of where he’d been going, and what had distracted his attention from the road. There were some things best left unsaid.

  C.J. took another bite of the apple, the sound loud in the small kitchen. “What happened?” he asked with a full mouth.

  Deborah turned off the faucet and wiped her hands with a dish towel. “They’re not sure. I remember people finding bits and pieces of the plane in the river and the marsh for weeks afterward.” She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed, her lips tightening. “We had a baby doll fall into our front yard, and my mother cried and cried when she found out all those people were killed.”

  Cecelia’s face had paled, and she had a hand to her mouth while C.J. kept eating the apple.

  “Please excuse me,” Edith said, smoothing her palms on her skirt. “I’ll just go freshen up the guest room for Cecelia and then see about supper.”

  Edith ran upstairs to her room and pulled out her cigarettes from the nightstand. It took her three tries to light her cigarette, because her hands were shaking so badly. She moved to the front window and stared out at the sky above the river, seeing instead a black night illuminated with fire. She took a long drag, feeling the nicotine calm her, felt it seep through her blood like poison.

  For the first time in a long time, she thought of the faceless woman packing her husband’s suitcase, folding each shirt, each pair of pants, rolling each pair of socks and tucking them carefully inside. Edith saw her writing the letter and placing it among the clothing, each letter, each word in perfect penmanship, the ink thick and black on the paper from pressing too hard. She saw the woman closing the suitcase and locking it, knowing her husband would never read the letter—the letter that remained under Edith’s refrigerator and likely would stay there forever.

  Edith took another long drag, closed her eyes, and imagined she could see the night exploding and hear the river hissing as it welcomed the dead and dying as they fell from the sky. But when she opened her eyes she saw only the sea-glass wind chime outside her window, singing softly in the spring breeze.

  chapter 17

  LORALEE

  Loralee stumbled into the house, closing the door behind her with her foot, her arms overloaded with shopping bags she needed to hide before Merritt saw them, wanting to avoid the question about where the money had come from. Her hair dripped onto the shoulders of her raincoat and the paper bags as she shuffled them behind the blue and white sofa in the front parlor. She’d wait until Merritt left the house and then ask Owen to help her bring them upstairs. They were all for him, anyway. Except for two skirts, a bathing suit, a pair of shorts, a dress, and a couple of knit tops for Merritt.

  She leaned against the back of the sofa for a brief moment to catch her breath. She should have brought Owen with her so that she would have been guaranteed a correct size, but she’d had a doctor’s appointment beforehand and she hadn’t wanted to drag him in with her. All those ladies’ doctors always had pictures on the walls showing parts of women’s bodies that Owen was happily ignorant of, and he would—hopefully—remain so for at least a few more years.

  After a deep, sustaining breath, she pushed herself away from the sofa and went back out onto the porch. The heavy sky lit up again with a fork of lightning as the rain fell in sheets. Loralee turned her face upward, breathing in the scent of the rain-soaked marsh and the salty air, wishing she could bottle the fragrance. She’d make a million dollars selling it to all the displaced residents of the coastal South who longed for home.

  Smiling to herself, she moved to one of the wobbly wicker tables on the porch, where she’d set her prize find. She’d been on the way from the doctor’s office near Beaufort Memorial when she’d passed a garage sale. Her mama’s words had seemed so loud that for a moment Loralee thought she was in the Navigator with her. One person’s trash is another person’s treasure. Some of the most priceless finds have no real value except for the amount of love and memories they hold. Loralee had written that down in her journal as soon as she’d found a parking spot.

  It was a Singer sewing machine. Not one of the old black metal ones with a foot pump like her mama had had, but one that was probably from the seventies, with an electric cord. It was cream-colored plastic and metal but was in perfect working order, according to the woman selling it, who had happily run a piece of fabric through just to prove it.

  There was a photograph in one of Robert’s albums that showed a young Merritt with her mother at a kitchen table covered with bolts of fabric and a sewing machine that looked a lot like this one. Loralee knew she was taking a chance, rushing things with Merritt. But life was like that, keeping time on a clock with fewer hours on it than what you’d come to expect.

  She lifted the machine and brought it into the house, leaving it on the foyer table. She was winded and looked longingly at the sofa in the parlor, wondering how long she could lie down before somebody noticed her. Owen shouted from the kitchen, followed by another shout that was definitely from Merritt.

  Moving as fast as she could, and ignoring the dripping water from her raincoat and the wet footsteps from her high-heeled boots, she made her way into the kitchen, pausing at the threshold for a moment before anybody saw her.

  Merritt and Owen sat next to each other with their backs against the kitchen table, facing the large window over the sink. The window framed the streaks of lightning as they flitted across the sky, Merritt and Owen spectators with their own personal viewing. Owen was afraid of storms, which was why Loralee had rushed home when the sky had first started rumbling. She’d imagined him under his bed with a flashlight and a book instead of in the kitchen watching the storm’s impressive light show.

  Merritt and Owen each held a glass Coca-Cola bottle, and an opened bag of salted and shelled peanuts sat on the table behind them. Loralee watched as Owen took a sip of his Coke, then sucked in his cheeks for a moment before swallowing. “Wow!” he shouted. “It’s like it just popped in my head. Are there bubbles coming out of my ears?”

  Merritt looked at her brother, her face serious. “Not yet. Maybe you need to take another sip.”

  Owen shook his head. “It’s your turn. You have to take a big sip, and make sure you get a bunch of peanuts on your tongue.”

  Merritt tilted her head back, the Coke bottle to her mouth, and clenched her eyes. After taking the bottle from her face she began chewing and then swallowed, sucking in her cheeks just like Owen. “Wow!” she said, just as loud as Owen. “You’re right. Do I have bubbles coming out of my ears?”

  Owen giggled so that he didn’t even notice the flash of light outside, or the roll of thunder that quickly followed, and Loralee was certain that was Merritt’s intention. Just as she was sure that the peanuts and Coke had been Merritt’s idea.

  She must have made a noise, because Merritt turned her head and spotted her. Loralee smiled, hoping Merritt knew how thankful she was.

  “It’s a real gully-washer outside, that’s for sure,” Loralee said as she shrugged out of her raincoat. She folded it over the back of an empty chair, then slid gratefully onto the seat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to get these boots off my feet. They’re soaked through.”

  As she unzipped the first boot, Owen sprang from his chair. “Merritt said she didn’t like storms and wanted company, so we decided to come down to the kitchen together and wait for it to be over. She said when she was little her mama used to say that thunder was just the sound of angels bowling and that lightning happened when one of them made a strike, and that made her not be afraid anymore.” He laughed and took another d
rink from his bottle.

  “That would do it,” she agreed, meeting Merritt’s eyes. Merritt smiled softly before looking away.

  Loralee slid off the second boot and wiggled her toes, wishing she didn’t have to stand up ever again.

  “You know, Loralee, your feet wouldn’t hurt if you wore sensible shoes. I’ll never understand why you wear those high heels.” Merritt’s serious expression was softened by the small trace of Coke bubbles on her upper lip.

  “Maybe you should try them sometime, so you’ll know why so many women wear them.” She imagined Merritt in five-inch Louboutins, strutting about feeling tall, powerful, and sexy, and the thought didn’t make her want to giggle.

  Merritt looked at her doubtfully as she slid her chair from the table. “It’s time to get dinner started. I bought three lobsters—I do know how to do that, at least. I thought we could celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “I got a job today. At a small museum in Port Royal. I hadn’t expected to find one in my field so quickly, to be honest. I saw the ad in Sunday’s paper and sent in my résumé. I interviewed today and they hired me on the spot. I guess my degree and work experience really paid off.”

  Or maybe they just liked you, Loralee wanted to add. But she knew that Merritt wasn’t good at taking compliments, and Loralee had begun to suspect that it was because she wasn’t used to them.

  Merritt continued. “It’s only part-time for now, with not too many hours, but that’s fine until I get more settled here and decide what kind of renovations I want to do to the house.” She bent over one of the lower cabinets where the pots and pans were located and opened it. Without looking at Loralee, she asked, “How’s your job search going?”

  “Oh, I’ve sent a few résumés, and while I’ve been out running errands I’ve checked out help-wanted signs in stores. Nothing yet, but I know the right job will come along soon.”

  Merritt nodded, her silence meaning only that she was thinking of the next thing she wanted to discuss with Loralee. Eager not to repeat the conversation they’d had regarding Owen’s education and whether Loralee could afford private school, she forced herself to stand, leaning heavily on the table.

  “I bought something for you today that I think you’ll enjoy. Don’t worry—it wasn’t expensive. I found it at a garage sale. And if you don’t like it, I’ll sell it on craigslist.”

  Merritt eyed her suspiciously. “I hope it’s not clothes. I don’t think you and I share the same taste.”

  Loralee bit her lip so she wouldn’t say the first thing that came to mind: Thank goodness for small mercies. “No. But close.” She held out her hand. “Close your eyes—it’s a surprise.”

  For a moment Loralee thought Merritt would refuse to take her hand, and maybe she would have if Owen hadn’t been there. After a small hesitation, Merritt put her hand in Loralee’s and allowed herself to be led through the kitchen door.

  “Can I look, Mama?”

  “Come on, Owen—just don’t say anything until Merritt opens her eyes.”

  Owen jumped up and down behind them. “Tell me when and I’ll let Merritt know when she can open them.”

  Loralee led them to the foyer, where the sewing machine sat on the table, looking as out of place on the fancy antique as a potbellied pig sitting in first class. She stood behind Merritt and took her shoulders to move her in the right position. “Okay, Owen. Go ahead.”

  “Open your eyes,” he commanded.

  Merritt’s eyes opened and she stared at the sewing machine without saying a single word.

  “It’s a sewing machine,” Loralee explained, thinking that maybe it had been a long time since Merritt had seen one.

  “I know what it is,” she said, her eyes focused on the machine. “I just . . .” She faced Loralee. “Why is it here?”

  “There was a photo of you and your mama, and you were making something with the sewing machine. I thought . . .” She stopped, alarmed at the wetness in Merritt’s eyes and wondering whether she’d made a very big mistake.

  With clipped and very deliberate words, Merritt said, “It was her mother’s sewing machine.” A slow smile softened her face. “My mother did a little bit of sewing, but my grandmother was really good with it—she could do monograms that looked like they were hand-stitched. She could make anything, really—I guess that’s where I got the interest. It always amazed me, because she couldn’t move two fingers of her right hand—nerve damage, she said. But she managed pretty well.” Merritt placed her palm on top of the sewing machine very lightly, as if she were petting a dog that might bite her.

  “After my mother died, my grandmother moved near us and would take care of me when my father had to fly. And then one day . . .” She turned to Loralee, her eyes distant. “I can’t believe I’m remembering this now—I haven’t thought about it for years.” She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “One day she got a package with a letter, and inside the package was a handkerchief with a monogram on it—and it looked just like one she’d made. She threw it all away, and then packed up her sewing machine and I never saw it again. And we never made anything together after that.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  Merritt shook her head. “I have no idea. She tore it up into little pieces and then shoved it back into the package with the handkerchief. She was crying—something I’d never seen her do before. She’d always told me that crying was only for weak-willed people, and I knew never to bring it up—so I didn’t. Then I forgot about it. Until now.”

  Loralee shifted on her bare feet, not sure what to do. “Like I said, if you don’t want it I’m sure I can sell it.”

  Merritt’s attention returned to the sewing machine, but she didn’t touch it again, like a girl being offered a large diamond ring but not sure whether she wanted to get married. “Why did you get it for me?” she asked quietly.

  Loralee shrugged, recalling what she’d written in her journal on the first day she’d met Merritt, looking like she’d been licking the same wound for years so that it never got better. Turning the page is always better than rereading the same page over and over. “Your daddy used to tell me how creative you were, how you could make anything, but that you’d stopped. I figured now might be a good time to rediscover something you used to love.”

  Merritt just stared at her, which made Loralee nervous. And when she got nervous, she talked. “Since you’re starting your life over, sort of. You’re in a new town and a new house, with new people in your life. And you even have a new job. Maybe now you can forget about why you stopped and find the joy again that it used to bring you.”

  “Joy?” Merritt repeated like she’d never heard the word before.

  “Like at Christmas, right, Mama?” Owen asked as he bent down to examine the working mechanisms of the machine. “It means happiness,” he said to Merritt. “Like when I make something new with my LEGOs.”

  “You must think I’m pretty pathetic,” Merritt said softly.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. I just saw this sewing machine. . . .”

  Merritt picked up the machine, and Loralee held her breath, expecting her to drop it on the floor. She could already see the bobbin rolling across the wood floor, unspooling the thread like a long, thin red tear.

  “I’m going to set this up on the table in front of the window in the dining room overlooking the garden. You get the morning sun there.” Merritt was halfway to the dining room when she stopped. “Thank you,” she said. She waited, as if she wanted to say more, then seemed to change her mind and continued carrying the sewing machine to the back of the house.

  “You’re welcome,” Loralee said to her departing back, knowing she’d done a good thing, and hoped Robert was watching.

  She put her arm around Owen. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go set the table and make some sides to go with Merritt’s lobster. Don’t tell her I said this, but I have doubts about her ability to cook an edible meal, so let’s make sure we don’t leave the
table starving.”

  Owen put his hand over his mouth and laughed, and for the first time in a long, long while Loralee truly believed that her journey had finally moved from a steep hill to a flattened path. She just hoped a cliff wasn’t waiting at the end of the road.

  * * *

  Loralee wiped her lips on her napkin, trying not to be obvious about the food she was transferring from her mouth. The lobster had been delicious, especially dipped in melted butter. She just had no appetite and had felt as full as a tick after the first bite. But she hadn’t wanted to tell that to Merritt, or to allow her to think that the food wasn’t good.

  At least Owen had scraped his plate clean, eating everything that was edible from his own lobster and earning himself a smile of appreciation from his sister.

  Loralee balled her full napkin in her hand. “That was very good, Merritt. Your daddy never told me what a good cook you are.”

  Merritt stood and started collecting plates. “That’s because he didn’t know. I started cooking when I was in college and never really had a chance to show him.” She avoided Loralee’s eyes as she took her plate.

  Loralee touched her arm, causing Merritt to pause. “You didn’t need to stay away because of me, you know. I always made sure that I’d be away flying during your school breaks so I wouldn’t interfere. Your daddy would put fresh flowers in your room and make lists of things the two of you would do while you were home. I didn’t know until much later that he never told you that—that he just expected you to know that he wanted you to come home. To meet your new baby brother and spend time together as a family.”

  Merritt placed the dishes in the sink, then looked out the window into the garden. “I guess I know where I got my stubborn streak.” She gave a little shrug. “And no, I never knew. It didn’t even occur to me, really. I just thought . . .” She turned on the faucet and let the water run over the plates in the sink. “He had you.”

  Loralee tried to remember something her mama had once said about wanting to redo the past, but drew a blank. Probably because her heart hurt too much. “There was more than enough room in his big heart for both of us. And for memories of your mama, too. He wanted you to know that. He wrote you letters, but they all came back unopened.”