Chapter Three
This had to have been the fastest week of my life. Which was saying something, since most of my days blurred into one long, never-ending day. I stood in front of my full-length mirror. A crack ran down the middle. I was too cheap to replace the five-dollar mirror I’d purchased a few years ago. It’s not like it got a lot of use.
I didn’t even recognize my fractured reflection. It could have been the reflection from my translucent skin or perhaps it was the pink silk party dress that wasn’t doing a great job of covering my body. A lot of leg was showing, not to mention it was strapless. I had forgotten I had boobs or even a waist and hips. This dress would make sure everyone at the wedding knew.
I ran my fingers through my long, curled hair that I had spent way too much time on. This was a bad idea. I looked ridiculous, like I was going to prom. Though I never went to prom, or any formal dance for that matter. Was there going to be dancing? No. Nope. Not going. I didn’t dance. Except a few times, long ago. But I wasn’t thinking about Porter or how he taught me how to slow dance on the deck of his parents’ boat under the moonlight to the sound and motion of the Gulf waves. I’d been good and not checked his profile once in the last few days. I’d been too busy being made up like a doll by Sharon and her daughter, Andie.
I caught my laptop’s reflection in the mirror. There it was, lying on my bed, waiting to be used. I could always mail the gift, a Mr. and Mrs. wedding frame. The exact one from their registry. It was more than I wanted to spend, but I kept thinking about the note Jaycee wrote and past mistakes. My mistakes. I grabbed the paper gift bag and the small, borrowed purse that matched the ridiculous dress and marched out of my apartment before I changed my mind . . . again. Jaycee at least deserved to know it wasn’t her. And she deserved to hear it in person.
Walking down the old stairwell in the nude pumps almost had me heading to the emergency room instead of a wedding. I hadn’t worn heels in a good five years and it showed. I wobbled down the cement stairs holding onto the questionable metal railing, which I never did. Who knew what disease I was catching? The pepper spray attached to my keychain was ready to go. Two more years, I reminded myself. Two more years and I would be able to afford a luxury apartment or even a home. And furniture that matched. I would even spring for a new full-length mirror.
Once I reached the bottom of the stairs, I took a deep breath. Not too deep because I swore something had died in the walls or under the stairs. Probably both. It was enough incentive to walk out into the warm evening. The weather had been beautiful the past couple of days, with highs in the seventies. It was a good thing since I was hardly wearing anything and didn’t have a jacket nice enough to match the dress.
I hustled to the adjacent parking lot that resembled a junk lot. My car fit right in. The faded blue Honda sat as if it was hiding in the corner of shame. Poor Lola needed to be put out of her misery and retired to a real junk yard, but a car payment wasn’t in the budget.
If I thought the crack in my mirror was bad, it had nothing on the parking lot. How I didn’t twist my ankle was a miracle. My car was so old it had to be manually unlocked. “Key fobs are for wimps.” I petted Lola’s semi-rusted roof.
How was I going to show up to a country club in her?
Please don’t start, Lola. I situated myself on the towel that covered the torn vinyl seat. I closed my eyes and turned the ignition. She hesitated. Yes! No. She turned over and started. “Oh, Lola, I thought we were friends. Now I have to go.”
I backed out of my space. Lola hiccupped, giving me some hope, but she recovered quickly and made the trek through the broken parking lot. It felt like we were four-wheeling. Needless to say, the suspension on Lola was shot, like everything else. At least her radio still worked, as long as you didn’t mind intermittent static. I was used to it now and decided it made some music sound better.
My stomach felt as tight as the DNA packed into a eukaryotic cell by the time I made it to the highway headed toward Paradise. There was a time I lived to go there. It had truly been my own personal paradise. Now I would give almost anything not to go. Not to be reminded of Porter. I knew I had a choice. I didn’t have to go, but deep inside I knew I did. I needed to go and leave Porter in the past once and for all. I needed to see that Paradise was a foolish notion and it wasn’t as beautiful as my memory made it out to be. Just like Porter wasn’t as wonderful as my mind remembered.
How could he be, after kissing Demi and leaving without a word?
I was no better. I did the same thing to Jaycee, you know, minus the kissing.
It was Porter’s silence that injured me more than anything. I could talk to him about anything, even my past. That more than anything probably scared him off. I couldn’t blame him. Sometimes it still frightened me. There were times I would wake up in the middle of the night and hear sirens. It would take me back to the night my parents set our dilapidated two-bedroom house on fire making meth. It’s almost ironic that now I wanted to be a drug maker. All legal, of course. Not that it hadn’t been apparent already, but that night at nine years old I knew how very alone I was in this world. I escaped through the small window in the bathroom after crawling on the littered floor. When the fire crew came and rescued my parents, they asked if anyone else was in the house and both of my parents said no. The disappointment on their faces when they learned I survived would be etched in my mind forever. But it had also given me courage. Courage to find my own way. A better way.
Even when I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle, who begrudgingly took me, I knew I would survive. What could be worse than having your own parents wish for your death?
Perhaps a man that promised that he would have run into the flames to save me, giving his own life if necessary, but when it came down to it, he left me too.
I shook my head. It was not a thing to be thinking about on the way to a wedding, or anywhere. I survived. I was better for it. The drive and will it had given me to make something of myself was invaluable.
Tonight, I would face my past head on and move on. Paradise would finally be a forgotten memory. I would leave Porter behind like he left me. And I would tell Jaycee how very sorry I was for disappearing without a word to her. I would make my peace with Paradise.
Lola and I hit I-10. It was there I had to decide to take the back route and face Cokeville or pay the ridiculous toll the expressway afforded. A battle raged within. It wasn’t a hard-fought war. Lola’s reluctance to go the speed limit on the highway and my limited funds won out. Cokeville it was.
I braced myself as I drove through the small towns that led to Paradise. Some were picturesque and showcased the charm of the South with well-kept storefronts and parks. Even Cokeville did its best to put on a façade. Half of the main thoroughfare looked right out of a postcard, with cute shops and an inviting café. The rest of the town was as rundown as Lola. I forced myself not to think of the years of cold indifference that lurked behind the fake exterior. I was Holland Reeves, soon to be Holland Reeves, PhD. My life was my own and good. I repeated this as I sped as much as Lola would allow through the first layer of hell.
I felt a boost of confidence facing my first obstacle of the evening, it waned the closer I got to the coast. I did my best to distract myself with admiring the pastel houses on stilts and the fun themed coastal restaurants like Tacky Jacks. I couldn’t believe that place was still open, and it still had all the brightly colored notes from its patrons decorating the exterior. The yacht yard caught my attention next. Such a different world from mine.
I crossed the bridge knowing on the other side Paradise awaited me. It was a small man-made island formed by the canal I was now crossing. The sun was barely setting. I knew if I rolled down my window—if I could roll down my window—I would smell the salt air. I loved that fragrance. It permeated every speck of Paradise.
Soon I began to see the hotels and restaurants that lined the main thoroughfare through Paradise. Palm trees danced in the breeze and the rays of the setting sun looked as though they were sad to leave the beautiful place. It was almost as if they were holding on for a moment longer to linger on the most beautiful place I had ever been. That wasn’t saying much since I hadn’t been anywhere, but I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful place than Paradise. Each hotel, shop, and place to eat had to abide by the strict architecture guidelines set up by the town. Paradise was made to look like a Mediterranean village, though southern architecture and roots crept into the parts of town that didn’t line the coast. Deep porches and magnolias and southern yellow pine trees danced among the palm trees.
Red tiled roofs dotted the landscape as I approached Paradise Boulevard. Each hotel boasted large arches with terraces and courtyards. Several had large fountains adding to the ambiance. My favorite were the Moorish columns made of colorful clay tiles some of the hotels incorporated in their designs. No hotel was as beautiful as the Clairborne, though. It came into view as soon as I turned onto Paradise Boulevard. I slowed down as I drove past it. If I was going to turn around, now would be the time. But all I could do was catch as many glimpses as possible. It was as beautiful as ever.
Porter once told me his grandmother loved Morocco and when her husband and she decided to build the Clairborne, she insisted it look as if it were in Casablanca. The whitewashed stone exterior with grand arches and columns were perfection. I could picture the courtyard in the middle of the hotel, with the square tiled fountain and garden, filled with a variety of plants and flowers. It was breathtaking at night when the only lights came from the fountain and stars above. I could see myself walking on the paved stone steps hoping to catch a glimpse of . . . Stop thinking about him, Holland. I was here to put him to rest.
He never really loved me. I had to keep reminding myself of that. If only I never loved him.
I took one more peek before continuing down the main stretch of Paradise. It was alive and well with spring break vacationers, both young and old. It would only get busier as the month wore on.
The Paradise Country Club came into view near the end of the boulevard. It was now or never. Turn, Lola, turn around. She wasn’t responding to my mind tricks, so I had to remind myself I aced organic chemistry. And if I could do that, I could do this.
The setting sun gave the country club a pink hue. It was more of a light coral during the day. For Jaycee, it was perfect. And why I picked the pink dress. It was her signature color, she’d once told me. My signature color was what was clean, or if I ever had to buy anything, it was what was on sale. Like the shoes I was wearing off the clearance rack. I talked the store manager down even more since there was a scuff mark on the heel. That’s how I rolled.
I parked as far away from the entrance as I could, by the trash receptacles. The parking lot was smooth, so trekking across it shouldn’t be dangerous. And this way I could slip out unnoticed and before anyone else left. Hopefully, they wouldn’t tow away my car, thinking it was abandoned. The rest of the parking lot resembled an expensive foreign car lot.
After turning off the ignition and waiting for Lola to stop her usual shuddering, I took a deep breath. I had to do this. Jaycee deserved to know the truth. I would watch her get married, find her at the reception, hug her, apologize, and then run like the wind back to Mobile. Or a light jog. Lola no longer did well above fifty miles per hour. My fellow motorists on the highway didn’t appreciate it, judging by all the honked horns and hand gestures.
I looked in the rearview mirror. My strawberry-blonde hair was still curled, and my green eyes looked properly frightened. I guessed I was ready to go. I grabbed the gift bag and purse before opening the door with a forceful push. Sometimes Lola seemed to swell and tighten up.
Right away a few people stared at me when I exited the rusted tin can on wheels. They looked between me and Lola, not sure what to make of it, but I kept on walking. I’m sure they thought I was in the wrong place. They were right; I didn’t belong here. Regardless, I thought about what Sharon had said. I needed to learn how to at least be comfortable in these types of situations. I knew I needed to come out of my lab-rat shell, but it was easier said than done. Labs were mostly safe, controlled environments. Nothing like the one I was walking into.
I breathed in the salt air. It calmed me. It always had. Even though I lived close to Mobile Bay, an inlet of the Gulf of Mexico, it had nothing on Paradise’s white sand beaches and fresh-smelling air. And it’s not like I ventured out to the Bay much. Who had time?
All my prepping and visions of how I imagined the evening going did nothing to prepare me for what awaited when I walked through the intricate, wood-carved door, synonymous with Paradise’s architectural landscape.
I hadn’t been in the foyer covered in pink roses for a single minute when I heard my name being called. The sweet voice was unmistakable.
“Holland, Holland,” Mrs. Clairborne repeated, eager.
How did I miscalculate this probability? I only factored Porter not living in Paradise into my equation, forgetting his parents would more than likely be invited to Jaycee’s wedding. After all, their families were friends, and Paradise, for being a tourist town, had a tight-knit community of residents.
I recited the periodic table to myself before turning slowly from looking at the sign directing wedding guests to proceed to the banquet hall where they were serving cocktails and hors d’oeurvres, doing my best not to panic. How come I didn’t think this through more thoroughly? I was a scientist, taught to account for every variable. I gave myself an F for this social experiment.
Within seconds, I came face-to-face with one of the loveliest faces in existence. Mrs. Natalie Clairborne was what some might consider a trophy wife. The younger, beautiful, second wife that didn’t look a day over thirty. But that didn’t do her justice. Though she was gorgeous with bronzed skin and dark tresses of hair to match her chocolate brown eyes, it had nothing on the beautiful person who lived within that perfect exterior.
Not only was I face-to-face with Mrs. Clairborne, Mr. Clairborne came along too. They both peered at me, and before I could say a word, Mrs. Clairborne wrapped me up in her arms.
Like the socially inept person I was, I froze. I didn’t give or receive a lot of physical affection. Don’t even get me going on how long it had been since I’d been on a date, kissed, or even held hands with anyone. I was a first-year grad student, and we’ll leave it at that.
The fact I wasn’t reciprocating didn’t affect Mrs. Clairborne. She kept right on squeezing until my brain and an appropriate response kicked in. I relaxed as much as I ever did, which for most people would still be considered uptight. My arms did make it around her, but it was awkward with a gift in my hand.
“Mrs. Clairborne,” I stuttered.
“Call me Natalie, honey.” She stepped back, taking my free hand in her perfectly buffed and polished one before surveying me. “You are even more beautiful.” She looked at her husband, Beau, who was giving me a stern look with clear blue eyes that resembled Porter’s. Did he know I broke the rules once upon a time? They probably saw the picture Porter posted.
I was about to apologize, but he tilted his head and sternness turned to softness and then his eyes lit up in an ah-ha sort of way. I recognized it because his son’s used to do the same every time he cooked up some scheme that usually involved us sneaking around or into something.
I was taken aback by the abrupt change and familiarity. If not for the twenty-five-year age difference, Porter and Mr. Clairborne could have been twins. Their eyes weren’t the only feature they shared. They were about the same height, five feet eleven. They had the same dark hair, but Mr. Clairborne’s was smattered with gray and shorter. His handsome face had more crinkles. But there was no mistaking the plotting in his eyes. The question was, what was he plotting? And why did he keep looking at me that way?
Mrs. Clairborne too must have clued in to her husband’s look and recognized it as well. She narrowed her gorgeous eyes at him. “Beau. Earth to Beau.”
Mr. Clairborne shook his head and focused on his wife. He smiled with pleasure. Who wouldn’t have? He was a lucky man. “Yes, darlin’?” Porter used to call me that sometimes with the same Southern accent.
“Isn’t amazing that we were just talking about Holland and here she is? It’s almost like fate, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Clairborne couldn’t quit smiling.
Why were they talking about me? I’m sure it was the picture. My palms began to sweat. I started reciting the periodic table again. Hydrogen…
Mr. Clairborne grinned and rubbed his chin. “One might say providential.”
What did he mean by that?