38. Keaton Cake for Dinner
My mouth is so dry I cannot speak. “You think he wanted them to die together?” I finally eke out.
“I think he planned it,” Harris says grimly.
My mother is motionless, still lying on the floor. For a second, I worry she is dead. But then she says, “They never would have planned it. They were way too religious to risk eternal damnation.” She sighs. Hard. “Well, I guess the fact that they were both dying makes their murder a little less tragic. I was still robbed of months or years of my parents’ lives, but I guess this is some comfort.”
“Mom, why would someone want to kill your parents?” I ask.
“We had this really sketchy neighbor who had done something illegal. Mom knew about it, and in true Mom fashion, she confronted him. And, well, I don’t think he took kindly to that.” She sighs again, her voice cracking, “And I was the reason she knew. I was the one who told her. My parents were murdered because of me.”
Harris and I share a disbelieving look. And I know we’re thinking the same thing: Murder seems a little extreme. “I don’t know, Mom. It seems to me like maybe Townsend planned it,” Harris says.
She finally sits up, her face stricken. “You don’t understand Catholic guilt, Harris.” She shakes her head. “Plus, if they had planned it, they would have left me a clue or something. I just can’t believe no one ever found them. All these years.”
I remember what Bowen said last week. “Search and rescue teams weren’t as well equipped then as they are now,” I say gently. I want to remind her that her mother left her a letter that could have a clue, but I feel like she is teetering on the edge of losing it so it doesn’t seem like the right time.
She nods. “Well, that is true.”
“I just can’t imagine being that brave,” Harris says. “I’m serious. To be like, okay, I’m going to end it.”
I hear a light rap behind me and see Violet peek her head in. “Y’all okay in here?”
Mom says, “Dad made some comments in his journal about how he wished he and Mom could die together, and now Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew have decided that they did.”
“He did hide the journal after he wrote that,” I chime in. I’m not convinced he planned his and Becks’s deaths; that wasn’t really what he said at all. He was more musing that it would be nice.
“Or someone hid it,” Mom says under her breath.
Harris and I share a look. She really believes someone killed her parents.
Violet nods and looks from one of us to the other. She takes a deep breath, and I just know she’s going to soothe us all with her wonderful Violet wisdom. Instead, she claps her hands together. “So, wine.”
Harris pulls Mom up off the floor, and she says, “If by wine you mean martinis, then yes!”
“Ladies,” I say to a very antsy Betty, Arlene, and Suzanne, who have all materialized behind Violet at the word wine, “I think we’re going to have to wait on the cleaning out for today.”
“But the Salvation Army is scheduled for—” Betty starts.
Arlene elbows her. “We can reschedule the pickup for another time. We’re here for whatever you need, whenever you need.”
She hugs Mom and mouths over her shoulder, Whenever you need us. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Mom’s sadness or panic or something to take over. I know the ladies are too. But maybe, given how strong she’s been today, we’ve underestimated my mother’s capacity for handling hard things.
As Violet makes her way toward the front door along with the other Dames, I follow her, grabbing Becks’s notebook off the kitchen counter on the way. On the front porch, I say, “Can you decipher this for me?”
I open the notebook to the very last page, where there is a list but no description:
Violet covers her mouth, and I can see her laughing despite her efforts to conceal it.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “Only Becks Saint James would have planned her own funeral.”
Now I laugh too, but then I stop suddenly, something occurring to me. “Did they ever have a funeral?”
Violet laughs. “They did. I’m sorry to say hydrangeas were not in season. But Patricia immediately jumped into action after Becks and Townsend were declared dead to plan the funeral. I don’t know if she knew about the notebook, but she at least had the good sense to have the reception at her home. Can you imagine if it had been at the Parish Hall? Becks would have haunted us forever.”
We both laugh, and I shush Violet when I see Mom coming.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, which is true because this is not, should not be funny.
After the ladies leave, Mom, Harris, and I decide to stroll down the boardwalk to take in the setting sun—a vivid hot pink against the blue sky—and the yachts and fishing boats from all over the world. It’s like a new place every day, and I love how there’s always something different to see. An egret lands on the dock and stares at us. Sometimes I wonder if the birds we see are really Becks or Townsend, just here to check in.
The bird reminds me: “Mom, I don’t know if this is a bad time, but a neighbor wanted to know if he could potentially buy Townsend’s plane if you still had it.”
Her head swivels toward me. “What?” Her reaction seems too big for what I have asked, but I’m sure her emotions are all over the place right now.
“So you don’t still have it?” Harris asks, interpreting her response.
“No, we still have it. It’s in the same hangar it has always been in.”
Harris stops walking. “Mom, are you serious? Do you know how hard I worked to save up for my plane? And you could have just given me Townsend’s?”
She sighs. “All right, Harris. I’m a terrible mother. But, honestly, the plane was maybe even worse than the house for me. All the memories of sunset flights and quick trips. When I think of my dad, I think of him at the helm of that plane. He was so proud of it. Part of me wanted to leave it there for him, just in case he ever came back.”
Sadness washes over me anew. If their bodies were never found, Mom probably always wondered if maybe they were still alive somewhere. The thought turns my stomach. “Well, yeah,” Harris says. “I’m sure it was an awesome plane.”
Mom tears up, and I elbow Harris.
She is obviously finished talking about the plane because she says briskly, “Well, this is tough but it is easier than I thought.” Harris and I share a look over her head because, obviously, we agree. “I built up how terrible it was going to be for so long, but now that I’m here it’s actually kind of nice to be home.”
“What are you in the mood to eat?” Harris asks as she stops and leans on the railing to look at the water. “Should we wait for Uncle Lon?”
Mom is typing something on her phone, and she says, “Cake. I’d like cake for dinner. And maybe a chocolate martini.”
Sweets are Mom’s stress-eat of choice. She looks up. “Lon won’t be here for a few more hours. His flight into New Bern was delayed. Plus, he’ll be very judgy about my dinner of cake, and I don’t need that right now.”
I don’t know if we should be worried but, well, it’s just a little cake. So we make our way to the end of the boardwalk, turn left onto Queen Street, and cozy up at the bar at Blue Moon Bistro, which I now realize my mother has never been to because it opened after she left. When she was here, it was just a house. It’s so weird to think how long it has been since she was last in Beaufort, how much has changed.
“We are here for chocolate martinis and dessert,” I announce to the bartender.
She smiles. “Well, you’re just in time. I have a new espresso brownie martini on the menu that, in my humble opinion, is the best drink I’ve ever made.”
Mom looks very happy.
“I’m here for an old fashioned and whatever the fish special is,” Harris says.
“And I’ll start with a salad and a glass of white wine,” I whisper, like I’m going to be in trouble with Mom for eating my veggies.
Mom shakes her head like I’ve betrayed her. Her metabolism is a thing of wonder. “I’d like to start with the beignets.”
Then she turns to me. “So, I assume that man with that little boy is your new love interest?”
“Diving right in, aren’t we?”
“And why not?” Harris asks. “When it’s so fun.”
Mom shoots him a look. “Oh, I’ll get to you next.”
He pretends to hide behind the menu.
“So, is it serious?” Mom asks. “With the man in the rumpled shirt?”
I roll my eyes. His shirt was a little rumpled, I’ll admit. But that is part of his charm.
The bartender slides an espresso brownie martini directly into Mom’s hand, and she sips. “Ah. Perfect. Thank you.”
The bartender winks and hands me my wine. As much as I love a dessert martini, they tend to pair poorly with arugula.
“I actually thought it was over. But then he came to New York to get me.”
Mom looks skeptical, and I know how it sounds.
“Anderson’s mom came back,” Harris clarifies. “First time in five years.”
“Thank you,” I shoot at him. “You’re so helpful.”
“Seriously?” Mom says. “This seems like it’s your new thing.”
She can tell I’m getting perturbed, so she pats my hand and says, “I’m just kidding, honey. Even Harris likes this one.”
I’m surprised by this. “You do?”
He stirs his drink. “He’s not terrible. Don’t let it go to your head.” He pauses. “For real, I actually think he seems like a stand-up guy. We’ve had some talks.”
“I can’t even imagine what those were like.” I put my head in my hands. “And I presume you two were talking about this behind my back?”
Mom nods enthusiastically as Harris says, “Oh, yeah. Totally.”
My salad and Mom’s beignets arrive. They are piping hot and melty, and I eat one before my salad. When in Rome. It dissolves in my mouth. I can see why Mom stress-eats sugar.
“So are you going to stay here?” Mom asks between bites.
Harris’s fish arrives, and I’m happy he’ll have something other than this conversation to occupy himself with.
I shrug. “I think I have to. If I love him, which I do, it’s the only choice. He can’t upend Anderson’s entire life. So if we want to explore this, and we don’t want to do long distance—which is never fun—then here is where I shall stay.” I take a sip of wine and add, “And as much as I haven’t wanted to admit it to myself, I feel like I’m supposed to be here. I love it, and I don’t want to leave.”
“I can imagine the employment market here is just steaming hot.” Mom rolls her eyes.
“Well, at least a job here won’t completely disrespect and degrade you like at All Welcome, which would be a step up.” Harris obviously wasn’t that busy with his fish.
Deciding this isn’t the right time to divulge my new life plan, I start on my salad. As I chew, Mom comments, “You know how I feel about moving to a new town for a man. This is your life. Not a Hallmark movie.”
I nod. I do know. Mom is not a fan. She says it never ends well. “But, Mom, I wouldn’t be moving for him. I’d be moving because I really love living here.” I pause. “Plus, who was it that insisted I come here in the first place?” It occurs to me that none of this matters because I don’t have a place to live once the house is sold. But that’s just a small hurdle, right?
Mom’s chocolate cake arrives, and I stick my fork in it immediately. It’s real gooey, buttery cake, not that flourless dark thing restaurants usually favor. “Oh my God,” Mom says, her mouth full. Harris sticks his fork in too.
His eyes go wide. “That is amazing.”
When we’re all sufficiently full and verging on tipsy, Mom says, “We should get back. I’m ready to read the letter.”
I shake my head. “Mom, I don’t know if that’s a great idea. Don’t you think you should be totally sober for that?”
“If I’m totally sober, I’ll never have the guts to do it.”
I’m bracing myself for what this is going to be like as we walk down the boardwalk. The setting sun has given way to a clear night sky, and despite my worries, I can’t help but be dazzled by the mast lights of the sailboats, the way they combine with the stars to create a glorious light show. And I think about Becks, about the life she had here with the man she loved. With her friends and her dinner parties, her bridge club and volunteer work. What a different life she had. Until this trip, I hadn’t known how to do any of the things she did and, even still, I feel sad at the thought of her way of life disappearing. And that is why I want to do my part to save it.
I walk through the front door and up the stairs with Mom, who sits at Becks’s dressing table, staring at the monogram on her mother’s sterling silver hand mirror that, I am proud to admit, I now know how to polish. Life skills left and right over here.
Mom slides open the top drawer, where I’ve left the letter, and removes the envelope. She runs her finger over her name. She smiles just a little. “She had perfect penmanship,” she says. “She had perfect everything.”
She puts the letter down and looks up at me. Harris has gone to Bowen’s to check on Salt and, obviously, drink beer, the coward, so it’s just the two of us.
I think she’s going to say something about the letter as her eyes fill with tears, but instead she says, “Keaton, I have been a terrible mother.”
I make a noise of disagreement. Yes, growing up, I wished she was the kind of mom who had my friends over for sleepovers and made pancakes and didn’t make me cut my hair short so I could fix it myself. From kindergarten through fifth grade, every single week, I wished and hoped and prayed that the mystery reader who entered our class would be my mom. It never was. But that didn’t make her a terrible mother. I always knew I was loved.
Before I can respond she says, “Honey, after my parents died, it took almost twelve years for me to even be able to consider having children. All I could think about was that if I had babies, I could die and leave them alone one day, and that would ruin their lives.”
I start to get a pit in my stomach. “That’s awful, Mom.”
“And when I had you and Harris,” she continues, “I battled that terror every day.”
A clarity washes over me, and I know what she is going to say before she even says it. Being back in this house, understanding what my mother has gone through, has opened my eyes little by little. In this moment, everything about my childhood suddenly makes perfect sense.
“I know it seems like I pushed you too hard from too young an age, that I made you rely on yourself too much. But my parents did everything for me. Even at twenty-three, my dad was paying my rent, and I couldn’t even go to a party without calling to ask Mom what to wear. And then, they were just gone. And I was rudderless. I was totally unprepared for life on my own.” She looks me in the eye now and takes my hands. “It broke my heart to make you so independent. But I had to, honey. I had to know that if something happened to me, you would be okay.”
I lean down to hug her. “It’s okay, Mom. I get it. And look, you did it. I’ve been able to do everything on my own.”
I pull away, and she says, “Keat, when you moved to New York without a second thought and landed an amazing job right away, I felt so proud at first. And then I realized I had done it all wrong. What I should have done is cherished every second in case the worst happened, instead of pushing you to grow up. That wasn’t how I saw it at the time. But that’s why I wanted to come to New York, why I want to be close to you now. I want to savor every moment with you and Harris that I can. I want to make up for it.”
I know she needs some sort of absolution from me, but I don’t know how to grant it properly. So instead I say, “You raised an adult, Mom. Sometimes it was hard, but I guess I have to thank you for it, too. Everything I’ve become I’ve become because I always had to rely on myself. And that’s all thanks to you.”
She nods. I don’t think I’ve given her exactly what she wanted, but I’ve given her what I can. And so I point to the letter. I can only hope that whatever is inside heals what needs to be healed inside of her.
Mom clears her throat. “You haven’t read this?” she asks. “Not at all?”
I shake my head. “It was sealed when I found it. It would have felt like defying a dead woman’s last wishes.”
Mom nods and looks back at the letter. She sighs.
“Why are you so scared to read it?”
“This is it, you know? Once I read this, I never get to hear her say something new again.” She scrunches her nose. “And what if they were murdered, Keaton? What if this is my fault?”
I take the letter. “You don’t have to open it. But if I had a few minutes to hear someone’s voice from beyond the grave, I would want to know what they had to say. And, Mom, as long as you didn’t murder them, it could never be your fault.” I pause. “You didn’t, did you?” I joke.
She smiles, just a little.
“I can read it for you,” I offer.
Before she can answer, we both hear a voice we recognize from downstairs. “Whoa, it’s like we never left. It’s exactly how I remember it.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, Uncle Lon.”
“What did he expect?” Mom asks. “We haven’t been here in almost fifty years.”
“I’ll go get him,” I say, backing toward the door.
Mom nods and slides her finger under the flap of the envelope. And I wonder what it must be like to have another moment to hear your dead mother’s voice.
I must cherish my mother’s voice while I have her, I think. I’m lucky I have more time to say the things I haven’t said, mend what needs to be fixed. We’re getting there; I feel it. As I turn my head and glimpse my mom removing the piece of paper, I have to feel like the grandmother I never knew is part of that.