Too bad I can’t enjoy it.
“It all feels so…” I shrug in defeat. “I don’t know. Cliché maybe? It’s alove triangle,for Pete’s sake. Who do I think I am? Bella Swan? Katniss Everdeen? Bridget Jones without the cool British accent?”
“You watch too many movies.” Auntie June frowns.
“Books,” I tell her. “I read too many books. They’re always better than the movies.”
“Say that when you’re my age and your eyes are shot. Why do the words have to be so tiny? And don’t get me started on that e-reader your sister bought me last Christmas. Iknowit enlarges the print, but there’s something unnatural about reading a book on a screen, with no pages or jacket or smell of printing-press ink.” She shudders to prove her point.
“Kids these days.” I make atchingsound, surprising myself with the joke. I didn’t think I had it in me today.
She grins, giving me a nudge, before sobering, and saying, “But back to your problem.” I groan. Itisa problem. A big, honking, stinking one. “When you’re talking about love, be it in triangle form or otherwise, it’s never cliché. It’s always unique because the folks involved are unique.”
My shoulders droop so low they pull at their sockets. “So here I am, still not knowing what’s the right thing to do.”
“You will in time,” she assures me. “Because while I truly believe it’s possible for you to love and even beinlove with both of them, I also believe only one of them is right for you. The question is, which one?”
Thatisthe question. And pondering it sends my stomach into fits. I think I might be developing an ulcer.
Her faded blue eyes linger on my face for a while longer. Then she looks out at the ancient live oak trees. A winter wren lands on a branch, cocking its curious head and singing us a cascading melody before fluttering away.
Oh, to be a bird and fly far, far away.
Then again, running away from her troubles never worked for Forrest Gump’s Jenny, and history has shown it never works for me either. My pesky troublesalwayscatch up with me. And usually, by that point, they’re so mad at having to chase me down that they bite me on the ass.
“Did I ever tell you my Jack was sweet on Bea before he was sweet on me?” Auntie June asks softly.
“Wait.” I stop the rocking of the swing by planting my toe on the veranda’s floorboards. “What?”
“Yep.” She nods. “He and Bea were in the same class at school. For a few months, they secretly dated. I say ‘secretly’ on account of our daddy was a strict sonofagun. He didn’t let us out for casual dates, only for formal affairs. Which means Bea didn’t tell me about Jack until he asked her to homecoming.” The look in her eyes is full of chagrin. “But when he came to pick her up for the dance, his hair all slicked back with Brylcreem, our eyes met and…sparks, honey.” She sighs. “Sparks like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Oh my God!” My hand jumps to my mouth. “What happened?”
“After homecoming, Daddy started letting Jack come around to see Bea.” Her wrinkled lips twist. “And see me, too, since Daddy would send me out to sit with them on the front porch to act as chaperone.”
I shake my head, seeing it all in my mind’s eye. Two pretty sisters. One charming young Cajun. Soft Southern nights with Bing Crosby crooning on the radio.
“Little by little, Jack and me…well, we got to know each other. And little by little, those sparks between us grew into a fire. But we both loved Bea so much, and neither of us wanted to hurt her.”
“What did you do?” I ask breathlessly, happy to forget about my own troubles for a while. But not so happy to find out that, apparently, love triangles run in the family.
“I didn’t do anything.” She shakes her head. “Like you, I didn’t knowwhatto do. Or maybe I was too scared to do anything.” She sends me a sympathetic look. “But my Jack…he wasn’t too scared. He looked at me and he looked at Bea and he looked at the life ahead of him and decided I suited him best. Even back then, Bea liked pretty dresses and fancy parties and the finer things in life. But Jack was all about the simple stuff. Good music. Good food. A cool pillow to lay his head on at night. He knew the two of us, him and me, we simply…suited. So he drove all three of us down to the river one night and broke the news to Beaandto me. He told Bea he loved her, would always love her, but thatIwas the girl meant for him.”
She swallows and stares down at her left hand, fiddling with the simple gold wedding band that she’s never removed even though “Good Time” Jack Goudeau has been dead for nearly thirty years.
“Lordy, that man had guts,” she says. “He never ran from the hard stuff, but instead faced it head-on. And let me tell you, itwashard. Hard for us to be around Bea. Hard for us to be happy because her heart was broken.”
She glances up, and despite the old hurt, her eyes are those of a woman who’s enjoyed her life and makes no excuses for it. The lines radiating out from the corners are more a product of days spent smiling than of advanced years.
“It took Bea some time to get over it,” she admits. “But eventually, she saw how well Jack and I got on, how happy we were together. And she had the grace to forgive us.”
Her voice is gentle when she continues, “Hearts break, but they also heal. That’s the beauty of them. And not too long after hers healed, she met her husband.”
“Joseph Chatelain.” I picture the framed photos scattered around the house. Joseph was a tall, thin man with a thick mop of blond hair and a dashing mustache. He’s young and handsome in all of the pictures, since he never got the chance to grow old.
“Despite what folks say about her marrying him for his money,” Auntie June tells me, “you can bet your bottom dollar it was a love match. I wish you could’ve seen them. Pretty as peaches, they were. The whole town would stop and stare when they walked down the sidewalk.”
Her expression clouds, sadness dulling her eyes. “I think that’s why she never remarried. Joe was the love of her life. Period. End of story. There was no use looking for someone after him. She knew she’d never find anyone to measure up.”
