Grounded Page 4

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Three months, six months tops.”

  Annie felt lightheaded, as if she might pass out. “What about Janice?”

  “We managed to save her and a few others who speak two languages.” Bob poured a cup of coffee from a dirty Mr. Coffee carafe and handed it to her. “I’m sorry, Annie. I hate doing this. As far as work ethic, you’re at the top, but between seniority stuff and Patriot wanting dual language speakers, I could only keep a small percentage. Take time off to enjoy life for a few months. I’ll call as soon as I can get you back.”

  When Annie called Janice after leaving Bob’s office, her friend insisted on her coming to stay with her in Brooklyn for a few days.

  “Janice, you don’t have to do this. I can stay at the apartment with the girls. Prema said there’s an empty bed until the weekend.”

  “Mama DeVechio doesn’t arrive until Sunday. I have an empty room until then,” Janice said. “Please come.”

  Janice met her at the door and took the peace lily from her without asking questions. Her brown eyes were full of sympathy as she set the plant down in a corner of her dining room and then went to get water for it.

  “What happened to Prema and your other roommates?” Janice asked.

  “She’s still on. Like you, the second language helped her. Kate and Evie don’t work for TransAir, so they’re not affected.”

  “That’s good. Do you want something to eat?”

  “No, not now.”

  “The kids have strict instructions not to bother you. If you need anything, let me know.”

  In the spare room of Janice’s house, Annie waited for Stuart’s return call, trying to calm herself in the storm of emotions that raged from anger to grief to disbelief. Her phone rang a little after eight.

  “Hey, you’re back!” His words were slightly slurred.

  “Yeah, where are you?”

  “On the patio of the golf club. It’s beautiful down here. Wish you could have come with me.”

  “Sounds like there wouldn’t have been room. When did Martha quit?”

  Silence. “Did I not tell you about that? Yeah, she decided to go work for some charity uptown.”

  “Stuart, I lost my job today.”

  “What? You got fired?” He sounded incredulous.

  “No, I got laid off.” She felt irritation rising up. “Patriot bought us out.”

  “Babe, I am so sorry.”

  “I can probably go back in a few months.”

  “Good. You don’t have to worry about paying rent. I can take care of you until you get back on your feet.”

  She took a deep breath and plunged in. “I met Sandy’s aunt on the plane today. She told me all about you and Sandy. I remember you talking about the girl before me. I didn’t remember the part about you living together, or the part about the cat being hers.”

  Silence. Then she could hear his hand muffle the phone. “Hey, guys, wait one minute.” Silence again. “Honey, I’m sorry. I should have told you.” His words lost their lazy slur.

  Another deep breath. “Why would you lie about that, Stuart?”

  “I was planning to tell you. It wasn’t that big of a deal with Sandy.”

  Not a big deal. She could almost hear him talking to his next girlfriend about her. “It wasn’t that big of a deal with Annie,” he would say.

  “Come on, honey, let’s not mess things up while they’re so good. We can talk about this later.”

  “I haven’t messed anything up. You have.”

  “Okay, you’re right, but we’ll work it all out when I get home on Friday. I’m not thinking clearly right now.”

  “There’s nothing to work out.”

  “Annie …?” She hung up the phone and turned it off.

  In her mind, a memory arose with vivid clarity. They were walking around Battery Park last fall, early in their relationship, when the subject came up.

  “I don’t know if I ever want to get married,” he had said.

  “Maybe you haven’t dated the right person,” she had coyly responded.

  “Maybe.” They had both laughed, and Annie had felt at the time that he was laying down a challenge for her. It was as if he wanted her to change his mind, and she knew that she could. She would be the one he would want to settle with, to make a family with. She had known it to be possible, and so she had not given the exchange another thought until now.

  That night in bed she lay staring at the ceiling of the DeVechio’s guest bedroom, thinking about Stuart. The love blinders were off and she began recollecting flaws in his character, little things she had overlooked. Only two weeks ago, he had talked about fudging on his tax return. “Uncle Sam doesn’t need it like I do,” he had said.

  Then there was the time she’d said no to an expensive bottle of wine. “Don’t worry about it,” he’d said. “The company’s paying for it.”

  “Why would they pay for us to have dinner?”

  “Annie, in this business, you have to look successful to be successful. If I don’t look the part, no one will invest with me. There’s a man here tonight I’ve been trying to get in to see. With a generous tip to the maître d’, I got a phone call this afternoon and knew what time his reservation was. I’ll stop by their table on the way to the restroom, say hello, have a brief chat, and I guarantee you I’ll get in the next time I call.”

  It all seemed so staged, she had thought, but what did she know about his business? He lived in a world of lies and illusions. Why wouldn’t he lie to her about his past? Worse, why wouldn’t he lie to her about the future?

  One minute she was weeping, and the next she was beating her fist into the pillow. She was angry with him—and herself. Denial and then disbelief had been her pattern with guys, starting with her high school sweetheart, Brett Bradshaw. He was the quarterback on the football team, the one who sealed her popularity and the one who moved on when he found a prettier cheerleader.

  Then she met Bryan, the perfect anti-venom to Brett, who she dated throughout college. He was loads of laughs, someone she could really enjoy life with, until a string of DUIs made him decidedly not fun anymore. He was a drunk in the making.

  After Bryan, there was Mike, the Texas businessman she met on commuter flights to Dallas. He seemed to have it all, until she found out about his wife, quietly wasting away in a nursing home with a brain injury. Stuart followed Mike.

  And here she was: thirty-two, single, no children, no home and no job. She was empty. Poured out, emotionally parched.

  On Friday, with Janice waiting below in the car, Annie went to Stuart’s apartment to remove her few belongings before he returned home. For a few happy months, she had grown to know his living space as if it had been her own. There were bits of knowledge she would no longer need, like the name of the mailman, the extra tug the door needed to lock and the day the exterminator sprayed. There would be no need to worry about a surly housekeeper or whether she had left something out of place.

  Refusing his calls and deleting his voice mails left Annie with no knowledge of his plans, but he was never home during the day. When he opened the door at the sound of her key in the lock, she was surprised to see him. He was unshaven.

  “Well, well. Coming back to the scene of the crime?”

  “What crime?” she asked, dropping the empty bag.

  “You stole my heart and ran away.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Maybe. But, you’re wrong to leave,” he reached for her and tried to pull her close.

  Annie stiffened and pulled away. Her eyes scanned the room, trying to remember what she left. She found jewelry, toiletries, a few pieces of clothing and a couple of books. She threw them all in the bag, hoping to leave as soon as possible.

  “Aren’t you going to take these?” he asked, holding the diamond earrings in his hand. “I gave them to you, after all.”

  “Give them to Felicia.”

  “Oh, I see how it is. Pretty self-righteous for
a girl who dated a married man once.”

  Annie turned on him, heat rushing to her face.

  “I told you, I didn’t know he was married. As soon as I found out, I broke it off.” She jerked the bag and it flipped on its side. She struggled to set it upright while Stuart laughed. Infuriated, she lashed out. “I was completely honest with my background, good and bad. Don’t you dare try to use that against me.”

  “I’m only saying, neither of us is perfect.”

  Annie scanned the room and saw an afghan her grandmother made and stuffed it in the bag.

  “Annie, I’m sorry. Don’t leave like this. Can’t you see how much I’m hurting?”

  Annie zipped up the suitcase and pulled it to the door. She pushed strands of hair out of her face and looked at Stuart.

  “What I see is a self-centered, narcissistic, lying cheater.” Chester rubbed against her leg and meowed.

  Stuart’s face twitched, as if he were fighting a grin.

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  Without responding, she slung her purse over her shoulder and pulled the bag to the elevator. Like Lot’s fleeing family, she didn’t look back for fear she would turn into a pillar of salt.

  Chapter Four

  Beulah campbell thought everything had a purpose. This was instilled in her by Miss Mecie Tarter, her first Sunday school teacher at the Somerville Baptist Church. Miss Mecie would declare in her high, shrill voice, “God has created everything for a purpose. You too, dear children, have been created for a purpose.”

  When the rain came in torrents on the particular Saturday she had intended to buy plants for her garden, she decided it must be meant for her to clean house and prepare Sunday dinner instead. Tying a brown apron around her ample waist, she set to work seasoning a roast, washing potatoes and carrots, and placing them evenly around the roast in the pan. Sliding the pan into the refrigerator, she marked that off her list.

  It was her week to host Sunday dinner for the single folks, a tradition begun after she was widowed and that she shared with Evelyn, her friend and neighbor for some thirty-odd years. Taking turns fixing the dinner after church made the work lighter on each of the widows. Everyone knew the rotation routine, and since the two women owned farms next to each other, all a guest had to do was drive up in one of the driveways and see where the cars were. The leftovers were never wasted and always went home with the younger folks, happy to have another home-cooked meal stashed in the refrigerator.

  And younger folks were the regulars at Sunday dinner. The oldest was Woody Patterson, a fortysomething farmer and horse trader from over on Puny Branch. He nearly married once, years ago, but canceled at the last minute. He had proceeded to scandalize the town by going on his honeymoon anyway.

  Sunday was a day for families to be together. For single folks, it could be right lonely. How well Beulah knew it, after losing Fred two years ago. Dear Fred. Her childhood sweetheart, the only man she ever loved. She still missed him something awful. During the week, a body could keep busy with work, going here or there, buying this or selling that, but when the quiet of Sunday came, she felt the lonesomes more than any other time. Church service and fellowship helped, but gathering around a table afterward with a tender pot roast put a salve on the wound like no other.

  Beulah put on a pot of water to boil, then set about mixing up the cheese mixture for the macaroni. “As long as I’m able, we’ll have food on the table,” she always called out to admirers enjoying the feast. Everyone laughed at her rhyme, thinking she had created it on the spot. Truth was, it was something her grandmother said years ago, and Beulah had taken it for her own.

  Most of the work for dinner was done on Saturday. She didn’t believe in running around on Sunday with your tongue hanging out, disrespecting the Sabbath and disobeying the Lord’s command to rest. Only the basics were left to do on Sunday morning, and when her guests straggled in after their respective church services, they knew to help set the table, pour tea, or clean up so the workload was spread lightly among them.

  The green beans were cooked, and all that was left were the pies. She eased back in the wooden chair at her kitchen table and sipped black coffee, holding the mug with both hands. The sound of rain hitting her tin roof nearly lulled her to sleep. She sure hoped they weren’t getting this downpour up in Louisville. She could picture all those women at the Derby, strutting around with their feathered and flowered hats, only to get doused with a downpour and looking like plucked chickens afterward.

  Good rain, good rain. Fred had said it forty-leven times in their married life and it would be good for her garden. Beulah never put anything on her garden except a little manure for the soil—organic, they called it nowadays, although it was just common sense to her. She figured the bugs could have their fair share.

  Beulah shifted in her seat to relieve an ache in her sore hip and thought about what was left to put in her garden. Heirloom seeds of Kentucky wonder beans, Roma beans, and sweet corn were already in the ground. The plants could be set in a week or so, depending on the forecast and the moon—stone and oxheart tomatoes; red, yellow and green peppers; yellow squash; zucchini; mushmelons; and if a filly won the Derby this year, eggplant. It was not a superstition, simply a frivolity she would allow herself. There was no way of explaining it, but her garden did better if a filly won the Derby, and Beulah had always wrestled so with eggplant.

  The first time she discovered this phenomenon was in 1980, when Genuine Risk won the Kentucky Derby and her eggplant won first prize in the county fair. The next seven years were disastrous, until 1988 when a filly called Winning Colors won the Derby. That year, Beulah grew an eggplant the size of a watermelon. Word got out, and the weekly Somerville Record took a picture of her holding her prize like a baby. It was plastered on the front page, below the fold fortunately, so her face didn’t peer out from every newspaper stand across the county for an entire week. Beulah decided from then on she would keep the size of her vegetables to herself.

  The harvest-gold wall phone rang in the kitchen, jarring her thoughts.

  As soon as Beulah said hello, Evelyn started talking.

  “Beulah, I was catching up on the news this morning and saw that TransAir was taken over by another airline. Wasn’t that the one Annie worked for?”

  “Why, yes.” Beulah knew this well for keeping her ears perked as to any airline disaster, always concerned it could be Annie’s plane.

  “Well, they said a lot of people were laid off. Have you heard from Annie?”

  “No, but she usually doesn’t call until Sunday. No news is good news.”

  “That’s right. See you tonight.”

  Beulah poured herself another cup of coffee and mused over the information. Truthfully, she worried about her granddaughter. In the last two years, Annie had called less. When she did, their talks were strained and distant. It didn’t help that they hadn’t seen each other for a year, other than a quick visit at Christmas. Annie blamed it on her schedule, which required more and more overseas flights, but Beulah sensed it was more than that.

  Just Wednesday, Beulah had gotten a funny feeling that she needed to call Annie. Over her seventy-odd years, she’d learned to obey those promptings. When she dialed the number, an electronic voice answered, and Beulah hung up. She wasn’t one to leave a message with a robot.

  That night, Beulah’s across the road neighbors, Joe and Betty Gibson, picked her up in Betty’s pink Cadillac, the one she won several years ago for selling cosmetics. Betty had long gotten out of the makeup business, but the Cadillac still ran like a racehorse, hauling them to the Country Diner every Saturday night for supper.

  Beulah grabbed her pocketbook and her plastic rain scarf and threw a heavy-knitted shawl around her shoulders. The rain had stopped, but the clouds looked as if they could overflow at any moment.

  Joe opened the back door for her, and she slid in beside Evelyn. Beulah always felt a little sorry for Joe on the Saturday night outings. He chauffeured two widow
women, held doors open, and sat quietly while they chattered like magpies with his wife, unable to get a word in if he wanted.

  “Beulah, did you hear about Bob and Christine Gooch?” Betty’s round face was anxious to tell the news she and Evelyn had obviously been talking about.

  “No, what happened?”

  “Well, they were sittin’ in their recliners this afternoon watching that antique show, and a fellow walked right in the front door and demanded money. Bob didn’t have time to get his gun, barely had time to lower the recliner when he heard the door open,” Betty said.

  “What happened?” Beulah asked.

  “He gave him everything in his wallet, and that was near five hundred dollars.”

  “Land sakes,” said Evelyn.

  “Feller went right back out the front door, like he came in. His car was parked out on the road, so they didn’t get the license plate number.”

  “I swan,” Beulah said.

  “Police said it was probably for drugs. You know that ox cotton and meth are gettin’ awful around here.” Betty shook her head.

  “News people call them ‘home invasions.’ I believe that’s the third one I’ve heard about this month. Do they think it’s the same person?” Evelyn asked.

  “Police don’t know. The descriptions are different, but it might be a gang working together.”

  “Girls, you better keep your guns loaded and handy,” Joe said.

  Later, Joe’s words echoed in Beulah’s mind as she was getting ready for bed. It sounded like something Fred would have said, had he lived to hear about such things. If she’d heard it once, she’d heard it a thousand times: “Every woman needs to know how to load, shoot and clean a gun. You might need it for food, or you might need it to protect yourself.”

  In her nightgown, she got down on the floor, wincing at the pain in her left knee, while her hand searched for the shotgun that stayed under her bed. Pulling it out and blowing off the dust, she loaded it with shells from her nightstand drawer, then placed it right under the edge of the bed where it would be handy. It was nearly ten, past her bedtime, and when she finally did get to bed, she slept easier knowing the shotgun was loaded.