—and walked briskly toward the terminal.
Jack sauntered along behind her. She’d snapped at him often enough in the last few hours that he was giving her a wide berth. He’d obviously figured out that it was better to say nothing at all.
She saw the girls first. Stephanie was standing at the gate, with her boyfriend, Tim, beside her. As always, Stephanie looked impeccable. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair was drawn back from her face and held in place by two silver clips. She wore a pair of black wool pants and a pretty yellow sweater. Tim, in Dockers and a striped Brooks Brothers’ shirt, was holding her hand. Jamie was close to them, yet separate, and dressed in baggy denim overalls. A baseball cap was pulled down low on her forehead.
Elizabeth quickened her step. “Hey, girls … Tim,” she said softly, pulling her daughters into her arms.
For the first time in hours, Elizabeth drew in a full breath.
When they separated, Jack came up beside them. He slipped an arm around her waist. She wondered if he’d known that she was losing her control, or if it was sheer dumb luck on his part. Either way, his touch steadied her.
Jamie looked up at her dad. She managed a tired smile. “Holy shit. You’re gorgeous. Did you have a face-lift or something?”
Elizabeth was startled by that. With all that had happened in the past day, she hadn’t bothered to really look at her husband. Now she did, and she saw what Jamie meant.
He shrugged. “They made me color my hair. Just when I’d gotten used to the start of gray, they took it out. I haven’t been this blond since eighth grade.”
Jamie frowned. “You look like a movie star, no kidding.”
Elizabeth took a step backward. She felt old suddenly, flabby and wrinkled. She hadn’t had time to color her own hair, and more than a little gray threaded her darker roots. And she’d slept so poorly last night that her skin was the color and consistency of tapioca. And here was her husband of twenty-four years looking like Jeff Bridges in The Contender.
Jack looped an arm around Jamie. “They did this treatment that peeled the skin off my face. It hurt like hell and for almost a week I looked like a burn victim. That’s why rich people look so good. They spend money on stuff you can’t imagine and pain is no reason to say no.”
Stephanie put an arm around Elizabeth’s sadly thick waist. “You’re as pretty as ever, too, Mom,” she said.
“Thanks.” It was all she could say.
The mechanics of death in a small town ticked forward like a well-oiled clock. Everyone pitched in. An intricate ballet played out first in the funeral parlor, then at the graveside, and now at the house.
There were pictures of Daddy everywhere, on tables and counters and windowsills. Some were ornately framed; others sat in plastic-wood frames from the nearest Piggly Wiggly. Everyone who’d come to Sweetwater after the funeral had brought a casserole and a photo. Wherever Elizabeth walked in the house, she was sure to hear soft laughter, a few sighs, and her father’s name spoken in a whispered voice.
In a town like this, people came together in triumph and in tragedy. Every emotion was shared, but none were openly discussed. No one asked Elizabeth how she felt or offered an expensive grief-therapist’s name. That’s how it was done in The Big City. Here, they squeezed your shoulder and remarked that you were “holding up well.”
Southern women had been hiding emotions behind competence since crinolines were in fashion. It was bred into them, like the ability to make a flawless mint julep or bake a perfect ham. Elizabeth did as was expected of her.
But as hard as she tried to keep the grief away, it stalked her.
When she couldn’t take it anymore, she escaped to the back porch.
It was the last place she should have chosen. She’d sat here so often with Daddy, listening to the cicadas and his tall tales. Memories pressed in on her from all directions. She recalled standing down at the pond trying to land one of the trout they’d thrown into the water as fry … or walking the fields at harvest time, when the air smelled of sweet white corn and tobacco smoke.…
This was where they’d come on the day after Mama’s funeral, too. It had been spring then, not nearly so cold as today. Like today, the house had been full of guests speaking quietly and pictures. You want to sleep in my room tonight, sugar beet?
“Hold on, Birdie,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, fisting her hands. Fingernails bit into the soft flesh of her palms.
It didn’t work. She had to get out of here. In about ten seconds, she was going to lose it. She went back into the house and disappeared in the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
She closed the toilet lid and sat down.
There, on the floor by the toilet was a magazine. Travel and Leisure.