One might assume I miss the opulence of my parents’ home, but Lord, one couldn’t be further from the truth. I would rather be at my motel in all its lacking charm, questionable décor and disreputable clientele. Because I can wear what I want, leave to get food or go shopping without being questioned endlessly. It symbolizes the freedom I didn’t have before, and I won’t give it up yet. It symbolizes choices.
Speaking to my mother doesn’t mean I have to go back to South Carolina. But she will use every tactic at her disposal to try and make it happen. Guilt, tears, threats. I know this from experience. Years of arguments at the dinner table between her and my father, just waiting for her to play the trump card. You had an affair. The winner to every argument against my father. Every argument I couldn’t mediate successfully, that is. Lord, the pressure to calm everyone down before we reached that point of no return—the affair—was so intense, I used to sit down with talking points in my head. Subjects with which to divert their attention. Jokes. Gossip. I even went through a card trick phase in my teens.
Distracted by memories of the past, the coin falls into the slot.
“Gosh darn it,” I mutter, poking the sticky keys until I dial the full number, listening as it begins to ring. “Here goes nothing.”
“Clemons residence.”
“Hello, Martha.” Stunned silence. “Is my mother or father at h—”
“Naomi Elizabeth Clemons.”
A chill racks my body, and I step into the sun to combat it. “Hi, Mother.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Do you have any idea what the last forty-eight hours have been like? Where are you?”
“I’m not in Charleston,” I push through stiff lips. “I went south. Kind of like the wedding.”
Silence. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”
“No. I’m sorry.” Still cold, I turn my face up to the sky and let the sun beat down on me. It helps, the reminder that I’m here in this time and place. Because I chose to be. “I called to apologize. About everything. You worked almost as hard as the wedding planner—”
“No, no. No. I worked much harder. I’ve been working on this wedding since you were a child. I did my job. Made an advantageous marriage, secured the right connections—the kind of connections that allow you to marry the next mayor. A war hero. The son of my best friend. How dare you walk away from this and leave me to deal with the damage, Naomi? How dare you?”
“He doesn’t love me,” I whisper. “Can’t you see that? Can’t everyone?”
A beat passes. “Do you think your father loves me, Naomi? You well know what he did.” I can hear her struggling to get a good breath. “The child of his former lover—that Potts girl—had the nerve to show up at the wedding. She drove off with your groom. Do you have any idea the kind of humiliation that caused me? Your father’s misdeeds are still fresh in everyone’s minds, and trust me, no one missed the irony.”
My eyes open only to be blinded by the son. “Elijah left with Addison Potts?”
“Don’t you dare say her name to me.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, trying to picture Southern gentleman Elijah with leather-pants-and-smirk-wearing Addison. “Do they…did they know each other before the wedding?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” huffs my mother. “The tabloids are hard at work trying to find out.”
I’m so stunned by the unexpected news, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Elijah and Addison. Day and night. An exciting, spontaneous night so different from my sensible nine o’clock bedtime with a cup of chamomile. They would have interesting conversations, I bet. He wouldn’t stare straight through Addison as if she’s invisible. He’d look. She’d probably drop his jaw. Am I jealous? Yes. Of course I am. I want Elijah to look at me like that, don’t I?
A vision of Jason in his kitchen devouring me with a sweep of hooded eyes catches me off-guard, but I shake it off. What a weird time to think of my employer. I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all when he’s not around. Not even a fleeting brain wave.
“Maybe they’re together now? Maybe…”
My mother’s snort punches me in the ear. “Do you hear yourself? If you’ve learned one lesson from my life, Naomi, it’s that we are the wives. Potts girls are nothing more than passing distractions. Eventually men tire of the flash and return to the class. Elijah will be no different.” She stops for a moment. Dramatic emphasis, I’m sure of it. “You better be back here when that happens, Naomi. Do you hear me? You get back to Charleston and salvage this for us.”
I hang up feeling like I’ve been pulled through a knot hole backwards. My sensible blue sandals gather dust on my way across the brewery parking lot and I almost forgo wiping them off with a moist towelette before entering. There is a crowd of people in the waiting room, some of them toting cameras, their out of state ball caps signaling their tourist status. I’m the only one who’s alone, but right now that’s probably a good thing. After the phone call with my mother, I’m unfit company.