“My big, tall boy,” she teased, then her tone grew serious. “Do you love Bob Don?” she asked, her voice a thrum against my neck.
The dreaded question, given air at last. “I'm-I'm glad he's part of my life now.”
“Well,/love him. He's a wonderful man. I wish my father was more like him. Kind, generous. You could be a father like him someday yourself,” she whispered in my ear.
“Maybe I will be,” I said.
“Maybe. Now, you put me down, all those folks in the house will be talking. And it's not right we be out here kissing on each other, after poor Lolly's death.”
I set her down gently. “This isn't a house of mourning like any I've ever seen. Deborah, Gretchen, and Uncle Mutt seem upset, but the rest-they seem disconnected. As if they don't believe Lolly's dead. Or worse, that it doesn't matter.” I told her quickly about my conversations with Aubrey and Philip. I did tell her about finding Lolly's letter, but I left out the part about snooping after Deborah and getting caught by Wendy. No need for her to know just how much of an idiot I'd managed to be in one short morning. “I'm not sure dysfunctional's the word for this bunch.”
“I don't understand why Lolly sent you the letters.”
“I don't know what she hoped to gain, either.” I let the bay wind caress my face. “But she's dead now, and she can't hurt us.”
“Jordan-” she began to speak, her upturned face earnest in the bright sunshine. She stopped.
“What? What's wrong?”
She shook her head. “It's nothing. Why don't we go back to the house? I'm sure Deborah's wondering if we've fallen off the deck.”
“Fine.” I took her hand and we began to walk toward the house, my heart lightening ever so slightly, and for the first time since our arrival. The feeling didn't last long enough to savor. Because I saw Gretchen stumbling down from the house, the bottle in her hand glinting like a blade in the fierce summer glare.
“Gretchen?” I ventured. We'd stopped on the path leading back to the house, and Gretchen nearly barreled into us, her gaze concentrated on some inward journey.
“Oh, Jordy. Candace. Hi.” Gretchen awkwardly gestured with the bottle, a Texas vintner's Chardonnay, opened but recorked.
Candace and I were silent.
“Oh, the bottle?” She laughed, a feeble twitter like a bird's. “Oh, this. Yes. This. I was taking it to Tom and Rufus. They're scouring about on the other side of the island.”
“You were going to walk a mile or so to take them a bottle of wine?” I tried not to make my voice sound accusing. I could smell the bitter tang of alcohol on her breath, covered up with the thin camouflage of mint gum. My heart sunk like a stone after its last skip on the water.
She saw the fear in my eyes and swallowed.
“Gretchen. Why have you done this to yourself?”
“Done what? I-I told you, I'm taking this to Tom and Rufus. Thirsty work they're doing. Well, you wouldn't believe me anyway.” Her voice took an edge, like a newly sharpened knife. A sneer, one I had not seen in many months, curled her lip. “You little bastard. You just can't wait to manufacture a lie about me, can you?”
“Gretchen. Let's go sit up in your room, have some coffee and a nice talk-” Candace attempted.
Gretchen surrendered no ground. “No, no. Don't need that. Don't want that. I just want to go for a walk.” She wobbled on uncertain legs. “I don't feel so good.”
I didn't speak. I just took her arm and steered her back toward the house. She stumbled along the first few steps, leaning against me for support. Then she wrenched away, as if I smelled foul and she couldn't bear another whiff. She pivoted and bolted down the path.
I grabbed her arm and she didn't try to wriggle loose. She stood there, penitent, her head cast down in silent shame. Her muscles trembled beneath my fingertips, and her skin felt like a furnace.
“Gretchen.” I kept my voice soft and nonjudgmental.
“Just… just get me up to the house. Don't let nobody see me.” She leaned against me, dropping the wine. It fell onto the soft grass by the path and Candace retrieved it. I watched the liquid-poison to Gretchen's system-roll languidly within the clear shell of the bottle.
We smuggled her into the house, entering through a rear door near the kitchen. Uncle Jake sat in the study, in full view as we tried to ascend the staircase with the stealth of burglars.
“What's wrong?” he called.
“Nothing,” I answered. “The sun just got to Gretchen.”
Uncle Jake didn't challenge us further, but I could feel the weight of his stare against my back.
Bob Don wasn't in their room. I eased Gretchen down on the bed. Her eyelids fluttered and she let out a small moan.
“Gimme something damp,” she begged, and I hurried to the bathroom, rinsed out a washcloth, squeezed out the excess water, and laid it across her forehead.
“I'll go find Bob Don,” Candace said.
“No, don't,” Gretchen murmured, but Candace was already gone.
I am usually a resourceful man, but my limbs and mind felt numb. I didn't want to sit through Gretchen's drunk. I wanted to bellow at Gretchen, but I kept my mouth shut. I sat next to her on the bed, watching the gentle flutter of flesh beneath her eyelids. Slowly those eyes opened and fixed upon my face.
“I don't understand how it happened,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than a sigh. “I didn't want to drink anything. I didn't. Never again.”
“What upset you?” She didn't answer me. Perhaps Lolly's death had nudged Gretchen back toward the demon rum. Seeing her die in front of all of us had been one of the most unnerving experiences of my life. I couldn't blame Gretchen for wanting to dull her own pain, but I felt disappointed in her.
“Gretchen, you don't need booze. We'll go over to the mainland tonight, find an AA meeting in Port O'Connor. You need to talk to folks about why you drank.” At least I assumed she did. What I knew about AA was gleaned entirely from television. I had done little to participate in Gretchen's sobriety other than offering unobtrusive support. I knew, with a keen and sudden tightness, I could have done more.
“Not AA. Not right now. Later.” She put her hand on the cool wetness of the cloth. “I don't understand. All I drank today was a little coffee and then a couple of Dr Peppers. Then-all of a sudden-I felt funny, craved a hit of wine. Couldn't-couldn't help it, Jordy! I couldn't help it!” She began to sob, a deep crying like she'd lost a part of herself that could never be regained.
I surprised the hell out of myself by taking her hand. She clasped my fingers hard. I bent over, whispering, “It'll be okay. It'll be okay.”
“No, no, it won't. He'll leave me. Bob Don said he couldn't take me drinking, he'd leave me if I fell off the wagon.” Dread widened her eyes. “Oh, God damn me for drinking!”
I squeezed her hand and said, “God won't desert you. Neither will Bob Don, or any of us.”
“Why”-she swallowed-”must you be so like him? Why? I can't give him a baby, I never could.” Her words slurred together like voices raised in distant hue and cry. Her drawl slowed and deepened; she almost sounded like a man.
“I'm sorry, Gretchen.”
“Oh, Jesus, don't be. I wanted his baby to grow inside me. Never could. Not meant to be, my mama said. She said God knew I'd make a lousy mother. God doesn't give babies to drunks.” Her eyes stared past my shoulder, riveted to the arabesque swirls on the ceiling. “Now Bob Don's got you, he's got his child. I don't got nothing.”
“You have your husband, Gretchen.”
“He'll leave me-” she sobbed, then hiccuped loudly. She covered her mouth with her fingertips and belched softly, a tear running down her cheek. Fear made her body as rigid as a board.
“He won't leave you. I won't let him,” I soothed. “Now, how much did you drink?”
She swallowed. “One whole bottle, and part of another. I snuck it out of the bar. I drank it up here. It made my mouth all cold, so I wanted to get warm. I decided I wouldn't- couldn't stay in the house. So I wanted to go to the beach, on the other side of the island. I could drink down there, yes I could. Maybe take a swim. A long swim…” She closed her eyes again, her breathing labored, her words mumbled. “I used to swim down there, when I was younger. Tom told me the sand's still soft. I used to swim there with Paul. We'd watch the egrets fly. We'd laugh at
