“I considered you my friend, too, you know. Not just Celia’s.”
“Me too.” It was all I could say. “So, you and Violet met again at a reunion or some event she came back for?” I had shifted into work mode again. It was useful to know just a little about the couples I photographed so I could make them laugh, or tear up, on cue. I knew too much about Miles, but nothing about Miles and Violet.
“We met at a grief support group actually—”
There was a loud knock at the door. Miles pushed back his chair and left the kitchen, likely relieved not to have to answer me. I looked out the window at the backyard to the idle wooden swing set with its covered sandbox. I didn’t remember it being so big, or so still. I resisted the urge to crane my neck to see who was at the door.
I didn’t have to wonder for long. I recognized the bearing of the footsteps, the low roll of the muffled conversation. Beck stood in the doorway and looked past me as if the most interesting thing in the room was beyond and above me, as if I didn’t exist at all. Then he opened the door and stepped outside, taking his Irish Spring with him.
Chapter 7
I WALKED TOWARD THE corner of the yard and examined the patches of yellow coleus tucked into a bed of mulch and rocks. Beck appeared in my peripheral vision as I knelt and pinched off a handful of blossoms. They would fit nicely into a vacant wineglass and brighten my room. I grabbed a small rock and pushed it into my pocket as I stood.
“Why did you tell Shay to apologize to me about the contest?”
“Because it’s not her place to make demands of you.”
“I can take care of myself, make my own decisions.”
“Obviously.”
“What is that supposed to mean? Look, can we just talk? I—”
“You’re not the center of attention here, Teddi. This is about Miles and Violet and Shay. So just step back and let them have the spotlight.”
“I don’t want a spotlight.” I never had the spotlight. I never wanted a spotlight. I looked at Beck straight on. “I just don’t want you to pretend I don’t matter. There’s a difference.”
“You matter to Shay because she still sees you as a link to Celia.”
“I am a link to Celia.”
“No, we’re the links. You’re just a reminder.”
“Why would you say something so mean?”
“People change.” Beck shoved a hand into his jeans pocket.
“Not fundamentally.”
“Yes, fundamentally. People change. You don’t think you’re a different person than you were before Cee died? I know I am.”
I wanted to argue but I didn’t want to fight, and that’s what this would become.
“What do you mean, you’re different?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Beck chortled. “You don’t know what went on here after you left, and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to give you a history lesson. You saw Shay once a year at some fancy hotel. I’m glad you didn’t abandon her completely, believe me, but now you come back and we’re all supposed to be grateful and let the great Teddi Lerner slip back into place in our lives? Maybe you bring back bad memories. Maybe nobody wants you here.”
“‘Nobody’ being you.”
“You said it, not me.”
“We were good together.”
“You were not good for me, Teddi. Not after you left. I…” he said, and then stopped.
That’s when I saw that look in Beck’s eyes, the squinty look, the one where he glanced away because he was calculating what to say next. Beck didn’t do anything spur of the moment; even when it seemed like he was being spontaneous, he’d thought it all through. His jawline softened as he pulled his hand out of his jeans pocket.
My phone beeped.
“You might as well answer it.”
“What were you going to say?”
“It’s too late to play catch-up and pretend everyone here is important, Ted. You went away. You outgrew Chance and everyone in it.”
“That’s not true.”
Beep.
“I don’t have anything else to say. Just do what you’re here to do and then go home. And do not hurt Shay.”
“Do you really think I would do something to hurt her? I love her.”
Beep. After this, the call would go to voicemail.
I assumed it was Mr. Thomas. His company, Titan Industries, would be a new client and all his retreats would be booked at our properties around the country. I’d be the one snapping photos to showcase on their Web site, arranging for formal portraits, and hiring photographers to shoot each corporate event. If I didn’t answer, the deal might fall through. Hester wasn’t as big as hotel conglomerates, but we offered more personal service—and part of that service was answering the phone.
Beep. “I’ve got to get this.”
“Of course you do.”
I swiveled around and plugged a finger into one ear. “Hello, Mr. Thomas. I mean, Henry. Nice to hear back from you so soon.”
Beck walked behind me, through the yard, up onto the deck, and into the house. I didn’t need to look or stop talking to know. The ground shook with every step.
*
Violet led me by the hand. She looked as unfazed and fresh as she had when I’d arrived. She pulled two chairs out and patted one. I sat. Violet tapped my shoulder with hers.
“I hope Beck wasn’t too hard on you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Not again. “Tell me, really.”
“He didn’t want Shay to ask you to come.”
My shoulders shook and I rubbed away the ache, pretending it was a chill. “Oh. Well, we have a history.”
“I should say! You’ve known him since he was born. I’m sure it’s just because you remind him of Celia.”
Shay stomped in wearing her dyed shoes.
“These are awful! Do I really have to wear them?”
“You wanted the same shoes as the bridesmaids,” Violet said. “You were excited to have them match the dress!”
“I changed my mind.”
I clamped my lips.
“Can’t I just wear sandals or something?”
“Or something? Really, Shay? This is your dad and Violet’s wedding,” I said. “They’re not that bad.”
“Thank you,” Violet said.
“Are you kidding me? You’re on her side?”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just think if the bridal party is wearing dyed shoes that you should too.”
“I know it’s a little old-fashioned,” Violet said. “But it’s what I always pictured, you know?”
I did not. I did not dream about weddings or gowns or dyed pumps. Well, I didn’t dream about my own.
Shay harrumphed. “Fine. Where’s Uncle Beck? I want to show him something.”
“He’s in the kitchen with your dad.”
Shay clomped away as if trying to fling her shoes off with each step.
“I’m not used to seeing Shay like that,” I said.
“She’s a teenager.”
“What is it with twelve being a teenager? Where did ‘tween’ go? Isn’t tween a thing?”
“You’re not around too many kids, are you?”
“Well, no…”
“The tween years lasted about a week.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I wish I was, but middle school is like another planet. They start sixth grade like Lindsay Lohan in Parent Trap, and end up like, well, like Lindsay Lohan.”