Chasing Sunsets Part 25

He slapped the oversized slice of pizza onto a plate and placed it in the microwave. "c.o.ke?"

I nodded again.

When he had brought my dinner to the table and sat opposite me, he said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I need to check on Patsy," I said, rising.

"Sit down, Kim. I've already checked on her and she's fine. Her fever has broken and she's sleeping."

I sat.

"Eat."

I took a bite.

"What's going on?"

After I'd swallowed and sipped the drink I asked, "What did you know about my mother?"

"Your mother? She was pretty," he answered with a smile. "She was always nice to me." Then he winked. "And she had the prettiest daughter of any mother I'd ever seen."

I smiled in spite of my heartache. "Did you ever think . . . did you ever know that . . . she maybe drank too much?"

"Drank too much? No. I mean . . . Kim, we were all kids. You know how it was in those days. We didn't really know or understand what was going on in our parents' lives. Besides, I knew her when she was here in Cedar Key, vacationing." His eyes narrowed as though he were thinking my question through. "Why? What has someone told you?"

I told him about my call with Andre, about Mom and Heather. I couldn't eat more than a few bites of the pizza, so after a few minutes I allowed him to lead me to Patsy's living room, where we sat on the sofa-he at one end and me snuggled up against him like a little girl with her daddy. "In my heart, I always knew there was something different about Mom's drinking, something beyond 'social.' I even used it at times. But I refused to acknowledge it as alcoholism." I shook my head. "No wonder I was such an ogre with Charlie."

He kissed the crown of my head. "What do you mean?"

"Sometimes he would go out after work and meet some of his old high school buddies. They'd have a beer or whatever. When he came home I wouldn't speak to him for days. I never fully understood my actions, but at the same time I couldn't control them either." I breathed in the blend of Steven's cologne and the detergent he'd washed his s.h.i.+rt in and wistfully thought how good it felt, this inhaling of his scent. "Since the divorce, I've tried to continue to control them."

"Which 'them'? Charlie or your actions."

"Both." I released a tiny breath. "Ohhhhh, maybe that's it."

"Maybe that's what?"

"The reason why he left me."

Steven's hands gripped my shoulders, and he pushed me back just far enough so as to make eye contact. "Kimberly, a man doesn't leave his wife and kids because she doesn't like for him to drink occasionally. Not without a few fights to that end, anyway."

I lowered my eyes, completely unable to keep them focused on the tenderness of his. "Then what?"

He drew me back into his arms. "That's for Charlie to answer."

"But he won't. I've asked."

"Then there's nothing you can do about it. Sometimes people just leave. They think they have their reasons, but they're not really reasons at all. Brigitte left me and Eliza to 'find herself.' If she ever has, I don't know about it."

I lay my hand against his chest. "Do you ever hear from her?"

"She came to Eliza's high school graduation. I think Eliza hears from her on occasion, but I have no reason to."

A breath of relief pa.s.sed over me. I turned my face up to his. "How was she? At the graduation, I mean?"

He kissed my nose before I rested my face against his chest. "She looked old. Much older than we are, anyway."

"Steven," I whispered. "What happened?"

I listened as he told me about their life in Tallaha.s.see, about meeting a man named Jack Cason, and about moving to Atlanta. I heard him as he recalled the letter he'd gotten from Brigitte, telling him she had left him and their child. But his voice trailed down a long tunnel as he spoke of his life as a single father and of the fingerprints of G.o.d, which he felt marked the days of his life.

In the morning, when I woke on Patsy's sofa with a lightweight blanket tucked around me and a cool cotton pillow under my head, I realized I'd fallen asleep in the middle of his story. That I had missed the answer to my question. "Oh no," I said to no one but myself. Then I remembered what had exhausted me . . . the truth about my mother.

Patsy was awake, propped up in bed and reading her Bible.

"Good morning," I said. "You look like you're feeling much better."

"And you look like you could use a vacation."

I walked over to the mirrored vanity, leaned over, and groaned. "Kind of obvious I slept on wet hair, isn't it?"

"I'd say. Where's your young man?"

I turned to look at her. "Steven? I guess he went home. I fell asleep at some point . . ."

"He's a nice man, I think."

I smiled. "He is." I looked at my watch; it was a little after 7:00. "Enough of that. What can I make you for breakfast?"

Patsy waved a hand at me. "Don't fuss over me. It's Sunday. You're going to church, aren't you?"

I crossed my arms. "I haven't actually thought about it. But, Patsy, I don't really think I should leave you . . ."

Patsy closed her Bible and placed it on the bed next to her. "I'm fine. Besides, I have a favor to ask."

I sat at the foot of the bed. "What's that?"

"I want you to look in my purse and find my checkbook for me. I never miss paying my t.i.the, and I don't want the church to have to wait on it just because I've had a cold. So, if you will, bring me my purse, I'll write a check, and you can take it to the preacher for me. While you're at it, ask him to come see me this week. Tell him I think I'll just rest here until I know this thing has pa.s.sed."

"I can do that," I said.

Nearly four hours later I parked near the church with my Bible on the front pa.s.senger seat and Patsy's check in my purse. I wore the only thing I'd brought which would be appropriate for services, a cotton and spandex green, black, and white floral skirt matched with a black summer sweater.

I crossed the street as others entered the church, blended with the small crowd, and entered the building. Inside the sanctuary-which smelled of old wood and an air-conditioning system that had just been turned on-I paused long enough to try to find a place to sit and spotted Rosa. Her eyes locked with mine. I smiled, waved, and quickly made my way to where she stood at the end of an aisle. "Rosa," I said. "I've been meaning to call and thank you for sending Luis my way."

She seemed ill at ease. I looked from her to the man sitting nearby and back to her again. "This is my husband," she said, though she gave no name.

The man-nearly too good looking for words-stood and extended his hand. "Good morning. I'm Manny."

"Manny," I said. "I'm Kimberly Tucker." I forced myself to smile broadly. "I was a childhood friend of Rosa's."

"Really?" he asked, looking from me to Rosa. "I don't remember you mentioning such a lovely friend, Rosa."

Rosa pursed her lips as her eyes softened. "Manny, you are always so charming. This is Kim Claybourne." Her brow arched. "Dr. Claybourne's daughter."

Manny's smile met mine. "Dr. Claybourne? Oh yes, of course." He turned toward the pew and said, "If you aren't sitting with anyone-"

"Kim?" Steven's voice came from behind me.

I turned. "Steven, I didn't know you'd be here."

"Cozy, cozy," Rosa purred.

"Rosa," Steven said. "How are you this fine Sunday morning?"

Rosa's chest rose. "I'm fine. You?"

"Good," he answered, then shook Manny's hand. "Good to see you, Manny." His other hand came to rest on the small of my back, sending chills along my spine and turning my arms to gooseflesh. "Honey, let's find a seat, shall we?"

Honey?

I felt heat rush to my cheeks before I stammered, "Sure."

We made our pleasantries with Rosa and Manny before Steven led me to a pew several seats back where Maddie sat. Upon seeing us, she slid over two s.p.a.ces and patted the pew beside her.

"Hi, Maddie," I said. "I didn't know I'd see you here."

"Every Sunday of the world," she replied. "Didn't know I'd see you either." She smiled. "Or with who."

I returned the smile. "Excuse me," I said, then turned toward Steven, who had settled in next to me.

"What's going on, Steven?" I spoke quietly.

He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. It felt like an ice storm up there. What's going on with Rosa? Why does she act the way she does toward me?"

His eyes studied my face for long moments; a slow smile crept from the corners of his lips. "You sure look pretty this morning."

My shoulders sank. "I'm sorry I fell asleep on you last night."

He leaned toward my ear. "Literally."

"Steven," I whispered as though admonis.h.i.+ng a naughty child.

He chuckled. "It's okay. I've bored better people than you to sleep, you know."

I gave him my best "I'm sorry" look before saying, "The last thing I heard, you were telling me how Eliza had gotten you to come to church with her . . . to see her in a little dramatic play."

"Oh, well, then. You missed the best part." He winked.

"Give me a second chance?"

He nodded. "Tell you what. After church, let's go to Tony's Restaurant, get some clam chowder-they have the best, you know-and we'll get enough for Patsy too. If she's doing all right, you and I will go out when it gets a tad cooler and I'll tell you the whole story. Again."

"Okay," I said. "But where will you take me this time?"

"The graveyard," he said. "Remember?"

Oh yes. I remembered.

25.

After church and saying good-bye to Maddie, Steven suggested we walk up to Tony's Restaurant rather than drive. I thought it a splendid idea; after all, the small corner restaurant wasn't very far. As we strolled with my right hand clasped in his left, I couldn't help but reminisce about past summers spent in Cedar Key. It seemed to me that every crack in the sidewalk, every lean of one building and whitewash of another brought enough memories to fill the nearby Gulf.

In the heat my hand had started to sweat, but I squeezed Steven's anyway. Every few steps we slipped from shadow to sunlight and back to shadow again. The Gulf breeze skipped around us. It danced up my skirt-for which I was grateful-making me glad I hadn't worn pantyhose. I looked at Steven, memorizing every angle and line in his face as he cast it upward, toward the sky. He was studying the clouds, I knew, wondering about the possibility of rain.

"I didn't know you went to church," I said. "Regularly, I mean."

He stopped looking at the sky, turning his attention to me instead. "If you'd stayed awake last night, you'd know," he answered. Behind the brown tint of his sungla.s.ses, I saw him wink.

"Sorry."

"That's okay. Yes, I go to church. Regularly."

"I don't remember you going when we were kids, I guess I'm saying."

"No, we didn't. My parents never thought it necessary. I've tried to talk to Dad since he got sick, but . . . either he just doesn't care or he doesn't want to rock the boat with Mom."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks. But Eliza's working on them too, so between us and Jesus, we've got it covered, I think."

"Okay, so you went to church to see Eliza in a play and . . ."

He smiled. "And I found something there that helped me out of the funk I was in since Brigitte left." He winced. "I didn't know how to say this last night, what with what you told me about your mom, but . . . I was drinking a lot back then."

"You were an alcoholic? I mean, are you? As in, recovery?"

"Yes, I am. And I go to meetings as often as I can. But I don't want you to picture me lying in a gutter somewhere before I hit my bottom. Being alcoholic is more than the b.u.m on the street begging for money. Mine was more in the sense that I chose to drink at night to ease the pain. The loneliness. I chose not to bring another woman into my life, and I thought I was pretty admirable for that." His smile was painful. "Instead I brought in a bottle." He shrugged. "It became a cop-out. Even with Eliza there, not having a woman next to me, to share my life with, was difficult. When I realized that the obsession to drink had taken over, I made a commitment to Eliza, to myself, and most importantly to G.o.d that I wouldn't drink again . . . wouldn't fall into that cycle of trying to numb my pain . . . ever again."

I squeezed his hand again. "I'm proud of you. I'm also surprised you never brought another woman into your life."