Page 37 of The Night the Lights Went Out
“You can stay and watch, if you’d like,” Dan offered. “I’ll make popcorn and call Heather to let her know you’ve taken ill and can’t make the meeting.”
He looked hopeful enough that for a moment she believed he might be serious. Or at least a little bit. “Trust me, you have no idea how appealing that sounds. But, as Heather pointed out, I have an obligation to my children to be a part of the gala. She wants me to head the auction committee.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “She must think you’re very smart, then.”
“That’s pretty much what she said, but she might have just been sweetening me up.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Merilee. Heather’s very shrewd and a lot smarter than most people give her credit for. She knows what she’s doing.”
A large framed photograph hanging on a wall behind Dan drew her attention. “Is that the Cockspur Lighthouse on Tybee?” As she drew closer, she recognized Heather with Bailey and Brooke in the foreground of the photo with the whitewashed brick structure behind them, the wind pushing their blond hair across their faces, nearly obliterating their matching smiles. A perfect, beautiful family.
“It is,” Dan said. “We have a place there, so I have lots of photos of the island. I like to think of myself as an amateur photographer, when I’m really just giving the girls fodder for when they’re older and they say I never did anything with them. I’m the perpetual photographer, so it looks like my widow and orphans in most of our photo albums.” His tone didn’t match the lightness of his words, and Merilee recognized something about it. Something in connection to this room. “Are you familiar with Tybee?”
She nodded. “My grandparents lived there full-time, so I spent most of my school vacations there as a child. Happiest moments of my life, I think. Until...” She stopped, unable to finish.
“Until what?” he asked, his voice kind. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to her with such care and concern that she felt the sting in the back of her throat again. And the need to talk to someone. The last person she’d confided in had been Michael, before they were married. He’d never asked her about it again, so she’d put her grief aside, wrapped it up in the Lego men and tucked it away.
“Until my brother, David, died. He... drowned. There on Tybee. He was younger than me, and I was supposed to be watching out for him.” Her voice caught, and she was aware of how close to tears she was.
“I’m so sorry.” He touched her arm, and she knew if she rested her head on his shoulder he would let her, and he would say the right words and make her feel not so alone anymore. But she couldn’t, of course. Not here, and not with Dan, no matter how innocent or well-meaning it might be.
“I’ve really got to go,” she said, backing up so that he dropped his hand. “Heather is probably already wondering where I am.” She smiled brightly. “Thanks for the offer of popcorn and a screening of my favorite TV shows, though.”
“Anytime,” he said, walking her out of the basement and up the stairs, turning on lights as they went. He opened the front door and held it open for her. “Good night, Merilee.”
“Good night. And thanks again,” she said as she stumbled out into the rain, realizing only after she’d driven down the driveway and onto the street that she had no idea where she was going.
Thirteen
THE PLAYING FIELDS BLOG
Observations of Suburban Life from Sweet Apple, Georgia
Written by: Your Neighbor
Installment #5: Clubbing at Costco
Until they opened up that new Costco near us here in Sweet Apple, I never for the life of me would have thought I needed a six-gallon jug of Tide or seventy-two rolls of toilet paper “just in case.” I resisted getting my own membership card for the longest time, but like all the other lemmings here in Sweet Apple, I caved and got one. It’s got a big gold star on it (I thought I was special until I saw everybody else had one, too, so I stopped bragging that I was a “gold star Costco member”), and I proudly flash it whenever I enter the store in need of a jar of nuts the size of my head or breakfast cereal in a container large enough to feed a third world country for a week.
During my trip earlier this week (where I was nearly taken out by a white Lexus SUV because the driver had her cell phone glued to her ear), the artificial Christmas trees had just been delivered.
I’m not going to use this blog to comment on people who choose artificial trees, because I’m sure they already know that they’re sellouts, lazy and unimaginative people with no desire to foster happy memories for their children. Because, really, with all the hustle and bustle of the holidays, what could be easier and more time-saving than hauling up a fully lit tree from your basement and plugging it in?
I heard of one mother who even keeps the ornaments on and just sticks the tree in a corner of her guest room with a sheet thrown over it. I don’t want to be the guest waking up inthatroom in the middle of the night with a hulking triangular-shaped blob looming over me. Granted, that mother has three boys all playing on travel baseball teams year-round (which we all know you can do in Georgia), so she’s busy playing chauffeur, so who can blame her for cutting corners on the biggest family holiday of the year? Bless her heart.
At the Costco there was quite the scuffle between two women fighting over the last twelve-foot tree (in a box—how convenient!). A Costco employee was making a valiant effort to referee, but I think it was obvious to all spectators that those two women were willing to fight to the death and that blood would be spilled if he got too close.
I missed the outcome of the battle because I was distracted by a group of women nearby hovering over an enormous pallet of boxes filled with cotton athletic socks at the unbelievable price of ten for five dollars. I didn’t need athletic socks, but even I gave them a closer inspection, because the price was just too good to ignore.
That’s when I heard the words “gala committee” and my ears perked up. There is no better source of scandal, drama, hysterics, and hurt feelings than a gala committee. And occasionally they even manage to throw a pretty darn good party, too. Apparently, one of the members arrived late to a recent meeting, having mistakenly gone to the house of one of the other women first, saying she believed the meeting was there.
There was quite a bit of back-and-forth about whether this was a mistake or intentional, as the very good-looking husband was home alone at the time and it took a good thirty minutes for the latecomer to discover her mistake and make it to the actual meeting. I believe in giving someone the benefit of the doubt. The woman is new in town, after all, so I’m inclined to cut her a little slack. Even if she is single and beautiful, which is what I’m thinking is the real reason behind all the tongue wagging. Nothing like single and pretty to get a room full of married women as nervous as a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rocking chairs.
When I left the store later with my cart full of things I’d had no idea I needed when I entered the store (the prices really are that good!), I stopped again at the thinning display of artificial Christmas trees. There was no blood on the floor, so I imagined the altercation had ended amicably. I stared closely at their nine-foot model and I will admit it looked most lifelike.
But if I bought it and brought it home, I’d know it wasn’t real. Just like those committee members gossiping about that poor woman. They know, deep in their hearts, the truth of the matter. But sometimes it’s just easier to go with the cheap imitation and ignore reality.
And that, dear readers, brings me to this week’s Southern saying. When listening to people wag their tongues on a subject they’re not informed about, or judge a person they barely know, just say, “You’d better clean up your own backyard before you start talkin’ trash.”
