“Since you’re dead set on exposing my shame, I suppose I’ll start from the beginning. I never really loved Ted. His family had old money, and my daddy worked at the Summerville post office. We managed. But every time we’d run errands in Charleston, and I’d see those Ashley Hall debutantes walk around in their pretty dresses, I’d go green with envy. I knew if I wanted wealth, I’d have to marry it. I wanted the Wells name and money, so I threw myself in Ted’s path. Over the years, we’ve gotten along fine, but there wasn’t a spark of chemistry between us.”
On silent, my phone lights up with a text from Henry.
“As you probably know by now, in the early ’80s, the mayor’s wife, Lila Mae, and I became quick friends. We shared apassion for gardening and started that little downtown shop. It did well for a while. But then I started to get to know Frank. I felt things I’d never felt before, and he did too. Ted never looked at me like Frank did. We behaved ourselves for a good while. But then there was that Grits Festival parade.”
She pauses, her gaze still out the window, like she’s forgotten all about me. She’s back in that summer of 1982. My phone lights up again, this time with a photo from the babysitter back home of Heathcliff at the playground. But I don’t dare touch it. I can’t risk anything keeping Mirabel from saying what she’s about to say. I know if I don’t keep her talking or if we get interrupted, I’ll never hear the story.
“It was a hot afternoon, so goddamn hot we had to spread towels out on our leather car seats to protect our legs; the little garden lizards swarmed into all our houses to escape the heat, hiding in our houseplants and curtain folds. After the festival, important Summerville folk hung out in the Duboses’ yard. Mayor Frank was known back then for his fine wraparound porch and elegant garden parties. There were backyard kiddie pools and champagne pops. Then Frank brought out an antique tray of his signature gin fizzes. While Lila Mae took the guests through her gardens, intent on showing off her newly imported Lady Banks’s roses, Frank brought me inside. Between the heat and the drinks, I think we both knew what was going to happen.”
She plucks a piece of lint off her dress.
“Don’tjudgeme, Lizzie.”
“I’m not...”
“I never had what you and Philip had. I wasstarvedthat afternoon. I made my choice of what I wanted out of marriage, but it felt good to let myself go. Just that once. Lila Mae suspected something happened right away. Women know these things. Tensions brewed between us at the garden shop, and then everything came to a head a month later when she calledme acheap whoreat the grocery store. Mr.Lawton,intent on embarrassing me to no end, dredged up that awful mug shot. It pains me to this day to know it still exists.
“Soon after the arrest, I threw up, and my doctor confirmed what I’d already suspected. I’m not sure why I told Frank. He was the first person I called in a panic. I confessed to Ted too, but he didn’t care.” Mirabel wrinkles her nose. “If anything, he seemed relieved that another man gave me what he couldn’t—not that hetriedthat often. Ted and I sat down with Lila Mae and Frank to discuss the matter. The closing of the garden shop, the arrest—we were embarrassing ourselves. It was best to part ways. But not before Frank set up that trust, determined to do something for the child.”
Outside, a blue jay perches on the garden sundial, flapping its wings once before swooping off.
Mirabel’s gaze follows the bird. Her right leg has stopped rocking. She sighs. She’s fought hard to keep her secret under tight wraps. Maybe she’s seeing that the world won’t collapse if she lets it out. Her gardens will still bloom. She’ll still host the Methodist Women’s League fundraisers. She’ll still be able to keep Ted’s house nice for him.
“And Philip?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Please...”
She eyes me angrily, tightening her lips.
“One afternoon, when he stopped by for lunch on his way back from court in Charleston, I asked him to help me and Ted move my cherrywood chifforobe down from the attic. While up there, he found a box of old photos and letters between me and Lila Mae, and me and Frank. You’re probably wondering why I kept them all. I suppose I was perversely nostalgic for the one time in my adult life when a handsome man desired me. Philip didn’t say anything about finding them, but he tookthem home to read. Always the lawyer, he wanted to try to understand all the facts before confronting me. Two weeks later, he came over that night to talk about it. At first I lied, and this made him angry. He said he had the letters. We had a row and I accused him of trying to shame me.” She wipes a tear away. “We’d never argued like that. He kept saying, ‘I just want the truth, Mama, and I want to hear it from you.’ I told him he had it and yelled at him to get the hell out of my house. Then...”
She breaks down in tears.
Moved, I remember what Henry said about how underneath everything, most people have a beating heart.
I move to the ottoman to sit beside her. I hesitate, then gently place my hand between her heaving shoulder blades. In fifteen years, I don’t think I’ve ever touched her, not even for a holiday hug. It’s unfortunate now that I think about it. She leans into me as she sobs, broken and vulnerable.
“Oh, Lizzie... help me... If I had just told him everything like I told you just now, he wouldn’t have left so mad.”
“It’s okay, Mirabel. It’s all okay,” I whisper into her hair. “Nobody cares about a comedy of errors that happened forty years ago. The accident that night wasn’t your fault. Just forget that. It was raining. It was dark. You know how many deer dart across that highway at night. A million things could have happened to make Philip’s car slide off the road. Itwasn’t your fault.”
She sits up, wiping her eyes with her fingers.
“Do you hear me?” I repeat, making her look at me. “It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.”
She nods.
“And every time it crosses your mind, I’ll tell you this again and again and again because it’s the truth.”
She puts her hand on my cheek. “You’ll do that?”
“I will.”
She nods. The shawl has slipped off her shoulders, and hermascara has streaked. She straightens, smooths her hair, and opens a little drawer from a side table. She pulls out a handkerchief, a hand mirror, and tube of lipstick. She cleans up as I try not to think about how many times she’s fallen apart and reassembled herself in this parlor over the years.
She purses her lips in the little mirror and fluffs her hair, her old steely expression returning. “Thank you, Lizzie. I never thought I’d look to you for help.”
