9. Alice A Beautiful System
Alice A Beautiful System
I stole money from the offering plate once. I was eight years old. I had been chosen for a high honor that day: post-church lemonade server. My prize? Leaving church straight from communion—before the post-communion prayer, before the final hymn—to get ready. Knowing I was walking down the aisle to break out early, escape the confinement between my two brothers in the hard wooden pew, and burst out of the huge double doors into the vast, enveloping light and warmth of the spring day, was a heady type of freedom that made me feel powerful and reckless. So maybe that’s what made me so bold.
Two gleaming brass offering plates sat on the long table behind the last, empty pew, overflowing with checks, envelopes, and cash, barely contained, like the stream of water from the fountain at school. With no premeditation whatsoever, I reached my hand over and grabbed a crisp, new five-dollar bill from the top.
That’s when my trouble began.
I knew that somewhere, way deep down, that was why I found myself now, at barely 6 a.m., in the back room of the wooden A-frame church on the water that had felt like home to me for decades. Behind the holy, public spaces, in the private, workhorse one, I polished, ironically, the same offering plate I had stolen that five dollars from. Then I moved my silver cloth onto the chalice that the congregation drank wine out of every Sunday morning, admiring the way it gleamed in the fluorescent light of the sterile altar guild room, which was lined with old, utilitarian wood cabinets with cheap white plastic knobs. It seemed incongruous that the interiors of such simple cabinets were crammed full of priceless, antique silver. The story goes that, when this church was founded in the late 1700s, the women got together and donated their jewelry. It was melted down to form pieces like this engraved silver chalice, which was lined with gleaming gold.
I never could be sure how I felt about all these shiny things in relationship to the God I felt I knew, the one who was kind and loving and forgiving—even toward someone like me. I didn’t think that God cared all that much about the ostentatious urns we filled with opulent displays of roses and lilies each week. Even still, I loved them. I loved getting to be the one here with them, maintaining them, caring for the vessels that would hold Christ’s body and blood.
This simple space with its perfectly ordered cabinets—organized by me—soothed me. It was where I felt closest to God. I didn’t pray to him anymore, not in any sort of personal way outside of the prayers I recited in church. After I’d begged him to rescue Jeremy from that avalanche and Glen from that car accident, after I’d pleaded with him through tears in the back of the ambulance with Walter, whose head and face were swollen to proportions that didn’t even look human, I stopped. I still believed in God. I just no longer believed that he cared what I wanted.
Maybe church was now just another ritual that helped me get through the days. But I’d always been a church person. It was the first place I felt real comfort and joy as a child, as a little angel in the Christmas program, singing a solo of “Silent Night.” I couldn’t understand why people were crying, but I felt in my heart it was a good thing. After that, I was hooked. These days I loved to be alone in my austere church by the sea early in the morning. I often woke around four thirty or five, and I needed something to occupy my thoughts, to distract me from the sadness and loss that were bound to creep in during those early, silent moments. I could walk in the dark down the beach and use the key I had been entrusted with after many years of service, to spend time in the holy silence of my most grounding place.
If they knew about the five dollars from the offering plate, would they have given me a key? If they knew that I was so shameless that I used the money to buy the Hello Kitty erasers I’d had my eye on, would they let me back here?
The door to the altar-guild room flew open, startling me out of my thoughts, and I couldn’t tell if my heart was racing because of the noise or because of the man walking through the doorway. Elliott Palmer. My Elliott. Only, he hadn’t been mine for almost a year for reasons that, as he stood in his jeans, cowboy boots, and slightly rumpled collared shirt, holding the silver ladle that was used for baptisms, I couldn’t quite remember for a moment.
I wasn’t sure if he was still angry at me for the way I ended things; he hadn’t reached out since he moved away, a few hours inland, to take over the antiques business his great-grandfather started generations before. But he grinned when he saw me like no time had passed, like nothing had changed, like I had never broken his heart.
After Walter died, I had sworn off men. Three dead husbands in the span of twelve years was three too many. I knew people said I’d killed them. And if it weren’t so ridiculous, it would have crushed me. So, not only could I not live through that sort of loss again, but I also had to imagine that men wouldn’t be lining up to lend me their arms. Plus, I was beginning to wonder if I was cursed.
Too stunned to delve into anything real with Elliott, too rattled to formulate something sensible, I said, “You shaved.” Oh, how I wished he hadn’t. Because his bare face was even more handsome. And I was kicking myself because that was all I could find to say to him, to this man I had cried into my pillow over for months.
“I had forgotten how beautiful you are,” he said.
I realized that maybe Elliott wasn’t winning any bright things to say to your ex competitions either. But I felt a blush coloring my cheeks all the same. Elliott could do that to me, make me feel girlish. I fell in love with him too quickly; I wanted a future with him right away. And that was why I had to let him go. Because maybe what everyone said was true: I had killed three men I loved. I couldn’t kill a fourth.
After the first two deaths, I had joined a support group for mourners. By the time I lost Walter, I felt like I had memorized the program. I was embarrassed to go back there again . I wondered if this was what it felt like when alcoholics fell off the wagon, got back on, and had to start AA from scratch. It wasn’t their fault; they were fighting a lifelong battle with a hideous illness. But in both situations, going back again and again presented some sort of element of failure. I had once again failed to keep a husband alive.
If I had gone back to that widows’ support group I felt like I was flunking, I never would have met Elliott. Unable to haul myself into the converted gas station that held the group every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I had instead taken my lonely heart to the brewery across the street for a beer. I had sat, feeling numb, wondering how a woman could even begin to make a start after so many losses.
Elliott had walked in that cold, dreary Wednesday night in February, when the island’s population was at its lowest, with a full beard and a flannel shirt tucked into his jeans. I didn’t consider him all that much. I wasn’t in a place to. But we were the only people in the bar, and, once he got his beer, he sat right beside me.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked.
“Only by all my ghosts,” I said in the most macabre voice I could muster. I didn’t necessarily want him to leave, but I wanted to be clear that I wasn’t in a Susie Sorority mood. I wasn’t going to give him some friendly, chatty banter and leave him with a smile—or end up in his bedroom.
As he settled onto the stool, he said, “There’s room for them and for me.”
He was trying to make me laugh; he succeeded. But his words turned out to be prophetic too. Because, much to my shock, there was room for Elliott and my three dead husbands. And my niece. And her three children. And the various and sundry other families who had been a part of ours. The man was not only a saint, he was also fun. He was light and free in a way I envied. He didn’t worry all the time, didn’t sweat the small stuff. He was five years my junior and mid-divorce from his high school sweetheart. He, like me, had no biological children. His wife, however, had gotten pregnant. With a baby that wasn’t his. He had his ghosts, I had mine.
Why did I throw that away? I asked myself now. I remembered something about protecting him, about saving him from me, but none of that seemed important as I felt my pulse speed up at his mere presence.
“Elliott,” I said, his name tasting like honey in my mouth. I was going for a scolding tone, but it didn’t quite take.
He stepped closer to me, and I felt a familiar thrumming in my chest that only Elliott could produce. “No. I hadn’t forgotten how beautiful you are. I just thought that I must be remembering you with rose-colored glasses. Because no one could be as beautiful in real life as I remembered you.”
I shook my head, reminding myself. I hadn’t seen him a week ago. It had been almost a year. “What are you doing here?” I asked. I knew what I wanted him to say. But how could he when I had discarded him?
He gave me his amused look, my favorite one. “Well, see, I came back here for you.”
Yes . That was what I wanted him to say. But why? Hadn’t I felt almost relieved when he left?
“But Juniper Shores Socialite said you had something going on with Father Matthew, and considering that you’re here before sunrise, I have to wonder if she might be right.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. I’m so glad you put serious stock in an anonymous Instagram account.”
He nodded. “It’s the only place I get my news. All facts. All the time.”
I laughed.
“So, Father Matthew?”
I put my hand to my heart. “As you can see, Father Matthew, the grumpiest, quietest man alive, and I are in the middle of a torrid affair.”
He laughed. “So that’s a no, then?”
I gave him a please look. My heart was racing out of my chest, and I just needed a second to compose myself. Because, sure, I had pushed him away. But in my heart of hearts, hadn’t I hoped and prayed that he would come back to me? Hadn’t I spent more nights than I could count missing that laugh of his, that smile, the way he always had an arm around me, a hand in mine, as if he could protect me from the world? I knew I had. I wanted to close my eyes and lean into this and rewind like no time had passed. But I was a woman with too many scars. “Are you serious, Elliott?”
“Have I ever, ever lied to you?”
I took a step closer to him, the only thing between us the ladle.
“Nothing’s changed,” I whispered. I thought back to that night on the beach, crying into the sleeves of my sweater. “You don’t understand,” I had sobbed to him. “I’m cursed. Every man who loves me dies. I love you too much to hurt you.”
He had held me to him. “Al, that’s ridiculous. You aren’t cursed. Unlucky, maybe, but not cursed.”
He couldn’t convince me. And as much as it had broken me to watch him walk away, I felt like I had saved him.
Now he said, “You’re right. Nothing has changed.” He put his hand to my cheek. “This thing between us is still very, very real.”
“But…” My heart was thudding too loudly in my ears to finish, my pulse pounding in a rhythm that wanted only Elliott. “Is this ladle for me?” I asked, trying one last time to deny the connection I felt with him.
He nodded. “I fixed it. That’s what I do, Al. I fix things.”
Elliott’s family owned a huge antiques importer just a few hours away where people came from all over the country to shop for authentic pieces they couldn’t find anywhere else, from true one-of-a-kind heirlooms—chairs sat in by Louis XIV or campaign chests that once resided in George Washington’s battle tent—all the way down to inexpensive trinkets you might find at a flea market. When we dated, he was always bringing me some token of his affection, and it was always perfect. A four-leaf clover preserved in glass, a vintage locket that happened to bear his initials (that was underneath my dress right now, still close to my heart), a set of incredible china that he insisted I use every day, an antique sewing basket that perfectly held my magazines. In his professional role, he had learned to fix and repair any number of priceless old objects, to save them from destruction.
I took the ladle in my hands, setting it delicately on the counter on a piece of felt, admiring its soft curves and delicate etching. Elliott, from behind me, took my hand in his. “It was beginning to split right here,” he said, his rough, callused finger over mine. He ran my finger over an area of the silver. “So I soldered some sterling silver into the space and made it as good as new.”
His breath, which smelled of coffee and peppermint, was so warm in my ear.
He turned me around toward him, my back on the counter, my legs touching his. He put his hands on the space where my neck met my shoulders, and I remembered how, when we were together, he always had his hand there. “Just because something is broken, Alice, that doesn’t mean you throw it away. It means that, if you love it enough, if you care for it exactly right, you can make it whole again.”
Looking up into his blue eyes, I felt like I was melting into a puddle, like all the mushy parts inside of me were going into all the mushy parts inside of him. I knew then that I couldn’t be away from him, that all the nights I’d lain awake missing him with a deep pain inside my bones hadn’t been wrong. I didn’t want to need him; I didn’t want to love him. Because I didn’t want to hurt him. Well, no, I didn’t want to kill him.
His hands ran down my bare arms, resting on my hips. “Elliott,” I said quietly. “They died. All three of them.”
He nodded. “I wasn’t worried about that a year ago. I’m not worried about it now.”
My eyes filled with tears. Here was someone who knew the truth and loved me anyway, someone I had pushed away who came back here for me. Yet I didn’t know if I was brave enough to start over again. I didn’t know if I could let him love me.
He leaned his forehead on mine and whispered, “How about we finish here, go get some coffee, and talk about how I’m too big and strong to die, even at the hands of the Black Widow.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I knew people called me that. And if I hadn’t before, that damn Juniper Shores Socialite had certainly spread the word. I didn’t even blame people, but it was still hurtful. In other people’s voices—not in Elliott’s. Because he loved me, and I knew it as well as the lines of his abdomen that I put my hands on now. My heart was racing. This heat between us was what had been impossible to resist.
I tilted my head up to his, remembering that I’d broken up with him because I wanted to protect him, reminding myself that nothing had changed. Just as I was about to move my mouth the last inch toward his, that heavy old door with the ancient, creaky springs began to open. Elliott literally jumped away from me, and not a moment too soon.
“Father Matthew!” I said. “I’m just here doing altar guild,” at the same time Elliott was saying, “I fixed your ladle!”
He looked from me to Elliott and back to me, an expression on his face like he knew he should probably care about what was happening here, but he decidedly did not. Father Matthew was a man in his late sixties with gray hair and a world-weary expression. But he came alive behind the pulpit. It was an interesting thing to watch, a moment that felt like callings were real.
“All right, then,” Father Matthew said. “Have my vestments been altered for morning prayer?”
Right. Morning prayer. Which was now, or, well, almost now.
“We’re here! We’re here!” Leslie called as she bustled in with a basket that smelled like it contained some sort of baked good, Bonnie on her heels. My altar-guild partners in crime were both wearing slim black pants with different-colored ballet flats and printed blouses, as though they were in middle school and had coordinated their outfits but didn’t want to match exactly. Bonnie’s shoulder-length hair was held back by a thin tortoiseshell headband. Everything about her style screamed efficient! She made fun of Leslie incessantly for growing her hair out long again and coloring it back to the red of her youth. I thought it was cute.
“Thank goodness for you, Alice,” Bonnie said. “Seven just gets earlier and earlier, doesn’t it?”
Leslie handed Father Matthew the basket. “I was late because I was making these muffins for you,” she said sweetly.
“Suck-up,” Bonnie said quietly, only to me.
Elliott laughed. “I should be going,” he said as I pulled the plain silver handle of the small closet that held Father Matthew’s vestments. It stuck a little, the paint catching in the humidity.
I looked over Father Matthew’s head. Elliott winked and mouthed Call me . Bonnie’s eyes went wide. “It’s true! He’s back!” she whispered. “Are you two an item again?”
Great. That news would be all over town by afternoon. No one had bigger mouths than Bonnie and Leslie. Were they Juniper Shores Socialite? Nah. I doubted they would venture into the world of Instagram. Why would they when plain old word of mouth had served them so well?
Leslie slipped the vestment on Father Matthew, and he wordlessly left the small room, seeming relieved to get away from all these women, as usual.
“Leslie, you are shameless,” I said, remembering that this was the other reason I loved this church, this altar guild. In my heart of hearts, I often felt so numb. By comparison, they were so animated that some days I felt like they rubbed off on me.
She smiled demurely at me. “Why, Alice, I have no idea what you mean.”
Bonnie rolled her eyes. “Father Matthew is great behind the pulpit. There’s no denying that. But I just can’t see him being a very exciting husband.”
Leslie put her hands on her hips. “Bonnie, I am seventy-seven years old. I don’t need exciting. I don’t need dramatic. I have you for that.”
I laughed, and Leslie looked back at me. “What about you, Alice?” she said. “Are things exciting and dramatic with our beautiful antiques man?”
Bonnie literally clutched her pearls. “Oh, how I hope so! Please let me live vicariously through you!”
“Bonnie!” I scolded. “What would Dean say?”
She scoffed. “Oh, call me when you’ve been married fifty-four years.” Then she bit her lip as if realizing that might be the wrong thing to say to a woman who’d never managed to be married more than seven.
“So, are you going to call him?” Leslie asked. “Because if he had mouthed that to me, I can tell you I wouldn’t be in this room right now.”
I laughed again. “Leslie! What would Father Matthew say?” These women.
Would I call him? Maybe he was right: he was man enough to overcome any curse from any woman. Even the Black Widow.
“Just don’t wait too long, darling,” Bonnie advised.
Leslie nodded. “A man like that has choices .”
I gasped.
Bonnie shook her head. “We aren’t saying he’s interested in his choices.”
“We’re just saying that the town is aflutter with the news of his arrival and a lot of women would like to be in your position, with Elliott pining for them,” Leslie added.
I studied them as they flittered about and twittered on about Elliott and me. I wondered if, inside, they were as light and uncomplicated as they seemed. And, maybe even more, I wondered if they could see past my perfectly cultivated exterior, all the way to the darkness inside of me. And, more important: Could Elliott?