He continued. “And Gibbes was more like their mother. More introspective and inquisitive. Before his job took over his life he was big into sailing—did a great deal of it in high school—loves the complexities of cheating the wind, I suppose. No time for it anymore, but he and my sons still spend time on the water when they can.” He chuckled softly. “I taught Cal and Gibbes how to play chess, thinking it was something they could do together. It was a terrible idea, of course. Cal would start off using his queen to barrel through his opponent’s pawns and then lose her early on. Gibbes would strategize his next five moves and win the game in six. Most of their games ended with Cal throwing the board across the room.”
My finger stung, and when I looked down at it I saw I’d pricked it on a thorn. I sucked on the pad, tasting copper and remembering Cal. Squeezing my finger and thumb together to stop the bleeding, I said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking these questions. I’m sure it seems odd to you that Cal never told me anything. I don’t blame him. Really, I don’t. I was relieved, I think, because then that gave me the excuse to never talk about my own past.”
“You have no family,” he said, his face so sympathetic that I felt the sting of tears and had to look away.
“No,” I said, turning my head so that I faced the stone saint. “How did their parents die?”
He took a deep breath. “Their mama, Cecelia, fell down the stairs and broke her neck. It was New Year’s Eve and she was wearing a long gown. C.J., their daddy, said he thought her heel had caught in the back of the skirt. She was dead by the time he reached the bottom of the steps. Gibbes was only five and Cal fifteen—terrible ages to lose a mother. C.J. died three years later. He was a heavy drinker and smoker, so it was no surprise that he died of a heart attack at forty-six. But my wife believes he died of a broken heart.”
I nodded silently, wondering whether such a thing was possible and wishing that something Mr. Williams had told me explained why my husband had left this place and never wanted to share his past with me.
We both looked up at the sound of car doors slamming. Mr. Williams began walking toward a rusty iron gate disguised by the climbing jasmine on the garden wall. “It might be members from the Heritage Society bringing casseroles in the hopes of getting a peek inside the house.”
He lifted a heavy latch and turned a small doorknob before pulling on the gate, the vines and time blocking his efforts. “I’ll find some pruning shears and cut these away this Saturday, if you like. Let’s go back through the house to the front door.”
As we stood inside the foyer, I heard a woman’s voice outside and the sound of footsteps crossing the wooden floorboards of the porch. I threw open the door before anyone could ring the doorbell.
I found myself staring into large blue eyes that were surrounded by what could only be false eyelashes. She had on fresh pink lipstick, and her blond hair was worn long and wavy with a pouf at the crown. Her silk blouse looked expensive but was unbuttoned one button too far, and her slim skirt revealed a long expanse of legs—legs ending in impossibly high heels.
I was so busy staring that I didn’t see the young boy standing beside her until I heard him speak. “Merritt?”
A small breeze teased the wind chimes, making them all sing in unison, the sound more like an alarm bell to me as I stared at the boy. He had a slight build, and seemed far enough from puberty that his cheeks still had a little baby fat despite his lean frame. He had thick, dark hair with a cowlick that parted his hair at an odd angle. His eyes, hidden behind thick-rimmed dark glasses, were bright blue, enlarged and blinking at me like an owl. I couldn’t stop staring at him. I’d seen eyes like that before. And the same dark hair. They were just like my father’s. They were just like mine.
The woman put her arm around the boy’s shoulder and smiled, and I saw how beautiful she was, and was reminded again that she was only five years older than me. “We wanted to surprise you, Merritt. We were going to go to Maine, but when I called the museum where you used to work, they told me you had moved to South Carolina. When I explained to the woman who I was, she gave me your lawyer’s name. And when I stopped by the lawyer’s just now, the woman there gave me your address.” She smiled even more broadly, as if she were delivering a much-anticipated gift, and moved the boy to stand in front of her. “This is your brother, Owen.”
I was too stunned to speak, my tongue heavy in my mouth. The boy stepped forward and offered me his hand to shake. “Actually, I’m going by Rocky now. Rocky Connors.”
I stared down at his hand, soft and pale with bony knuckles just like our father’s, then took it. His grip was surprisingly strong, his skin warm. He blinked up at me through the thick lenses of his glasses with uncertainty, but his handshake wasn’t tentative. I imagined my father teaching him how to shake hands like a man. It was the kind of thing he’d once taught me.
Mr. Williams cleared his throat, waiting to be introduced, and I turned to him, trying to find a way to explain that I had no family regardless of the two people standing on the front porch.
The boy slid his hand from my grasp and turned to the lawyer. “I’m Rocky Connors, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”