Page 85 of The Night the Lights Went Out
“Of course.” He put his arm around Merilee and she leaned into him.
“I’ll call you later,” Lindi said, brushing hair out of Merilee’s eyes and raising Sugar’s opinion of lawyers up exactly one notch.
They made it to the car and drove in silence on the short ride home. Merilee stared out her window, her face the color of a bleached bedsheet. Wade parked in front of the cottage and had unbuckled his seat belt as if to get out, but Merilee put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t. Please. I need to be alone right now. Thank you for the ride.” She opened her door and placed both feet on the ground.
Never having been one to listen, Wade followed her out of the car. “That’s it? Thank you for the ride? You haven’t said one thing to me about what happened that night. And now this. And all you can say is ‘Thank you for the ride’?”
“I’m sorry.” Merilee turned and ran up the porch steps, then let herself into the house without looking back.
Wade climbed back into the car and shut his door, then sat for a long moment without putting the car in drive. “What was that all about?”
“It’s not my place to assume,” Sugar said.
“If she was married and widowed before, don’t you think she would have mentioned it?”
Sugar looked at Wade over the tops of her glasses to make sure she got her point across. “That’s not what you should be concerned with. She’ll tell you the truth if you ask her. For some reason, she’s taken a shine to you. What worries me is whodidknow, and why they decided to let that particular cat out of the bag now.”
The rain began to fall again, hard this time, splashing against the windshield as the wipers silently swished back and forth in a steady rhythm. Sugar looked through the rain toward the woods, her view obscured intermittently by the blades, the tops of the trees fuzzy in the rainy haze of late morning. But she didn’t need to see the woods to know they were there. She knew where they were and what they looked like whether she could see them or not. Just like she knew that Merilee was hiding something, a secret she’d never wanted to reveal but that Sugar had known existed from the first moment she’d met her. Because, as Sugar had learned, everybody has at least one secret that could break a heart.
THE PLAYING FIELDS BLOG
Observations of Suburban Life from Sweet Apple, Georgia
Written by: Your Neighbor
Installment #9: Death and Taxes
As Benjamin Franklin was fond of saying, there are only two guarantees in life: death and taxes. I’ve always found it reassuring not having to wonder if I’ll get that tax bill or if one day I’ll die. Because we all will. Someday. Sadly, it will happen to some of us sooner rather than later.
For those of you who aren’t from around here, there are certain customs we here in the South adhere to when someone dies. First of all, bring a casserole to the deceased family’s home. Or deviled eggs. There’s very little (grief included) that cannot be made softer by either one of these. When in doubt, look in the back of your favorite cookbook under the “freezes beautifully” section to choose a variation of noodles, cheese, and bean dishes to bring to the bereaved family.
Second, go to the funeral. Even if you only knew the deceased from the post office line or from sitting on the same bleachers at your son’s football games, here in the South you’re expected to be in attendance. How else are they going to get rid of all those casseroles?
Lastly, a Southern funeral is not the place to wear your new red sundress. Think black or brown or blue, and definitely low heels. Nothing flashy or anything remotely sexy. Wearing red to a funeral is frowned on in the South just as much as wearing white to a wedding unless you’re the bride.
Why, you may ask, am I bringing up such a somber topic? In case you are not aware, we have recently lost an important member of our Sweet Apple community. A husband, father, and local businessman was found dead at his home on Lake Lanier last week during a gala fund-raiser for a local private school. Nobody—including the police—seems to know exactly what happened, as the poor victim wasn’t known to dabble in destructive behaviors and those who knew him well—including his beautiful widow—claim the circumstances of his death are simply beyond comprehension.
The death is being called an accident, but nasty rumors are churning up like a cyclone over warm waters. And if we get enough hot air blowing, we’re going to create us a hurricane. Sadly, all the rumors and innuendos seem pointed at the poor woman who happened to discover the body. I don’t claim to be an insider, but then, I don’t have to be one. Just listening to the crowd at the local coffee shop, I’m going to assume that they all must be insiders because they all had more fuel to add to the fire. Everybody had an opinion they were sure was based on fact, supporting all sorts of allegations about that poor woman. And because I don’t support gossip, rumors, or innuendos, I’m not going to repeat any of them here. Just know that nobody’s been arrested (according to one account), and I’m quite sure there was no conspiracy or mob involvement. This is Sweet Apple, after all. Not Chicago.
Now, I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the Bible, but I’d wager that most of you know the story about stoning the sinner and how only the person without sin was supposed to cast the first stone. There’s been a lot of talk about certain people having secrets from their past, and how secrets are a lot like chickens: They always come back home to roost. Show me one neighbor who doesn’t have a secret and I’ll show you a liar. Remember that when you pick up a stone with the intent to throw it.
Which brings me to today’s Southern saying: “You’re driving your chickens to the wrong market.” That’s what I’d like to say to all those people in the coffee shop trading rumors like they were at the New York Stock Exchange. And if you need me to define that one for you, then I’d just say that you won’t hurt your back totin’ your brains. Bless your heart.
Twenty-nine
MERILEE
Colin looked up at his mother where she stood on a ladder, hammering a hook into the side of a tree to hang the ancient bird feeder she’d found in the back of the hall closet. She’d remembered Sugar telling her how Lamar had hung bird feeders around the house and how she’d kept them stocked with seeds in an effort to make good karma when Tom went to fight in the war. Not that it had worked out, but it had set a precedent for Merilee and given her a project to keep her busy while hiding out from the rest of her life.
“It’s crooked,” Colin pointed out as she hung the wooden feeder on the hook, the ubiquitous field glasses pressed to his eyes as if he needed them to judge the less-than-expert hanging job his mother was attempting.
“Thanks,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans as she climbed down the short ladder and looked up to admire her handiwork. Or lack thereof. The bird feeder definitely hung at an odd angle, but perfection wasn’t what she’d been going for. “I don’t think the birds are too picky this time of year—they’re just wanting food. And if they don’t like it, they can move on.”
He smiled broadly and she hugged him just because. Colin was the only one who still approached his life totally unaffected by the fact that his mother was a pariah. His sister walked around like a black cloud hovered over her head.
“When can we go back to school?” he asked, his head tilted back to examine the birdhouse again. “We’re supposed to be starting an art project with Popsicle sticks this week and I was going to build a supercool birdhouse mansion.”
Merilee regarded her son, trying to remember not to frown. She’d taken a brief leave of absence from her job and had pulled the kids out of school for a few days of personal leave. Not that the school offered that, but the administration seemed almost overly helpful when she’d come to ask if such a thing was possible. Lily had seemed relieved, mostly due to the fact that only Jenna Matthews would sit next to her in any of their classes, and none of the other cheerleaders were speaking to her.
