38. Tilley Unladylike
TILLEY Unladylike
Tilley knew she was not a reliable narrator. She was prone to flights of fancy and sinking off into other worlds. And she supposed that was what had made Elizabeth so sure the two of them could keep this secret for so long. Elizabeth would never tell. And, if Tilley did, who would believe her?
What she couldn’t figure out, lying in her bed, having woken up from a deep sleep only to realize what she had done, was why now?
Why, when she had been having such a great couple of weeks, had seeing the baby taken her back to the most painful part of her past?
She’d held plenty of babies. She’d lived with George and Greer when they were babies, for heaven’s sake.
And never once had she slipped back into the most difficult moments of her life, when she couldn’t mother her own baby and, eventually, it had been decided she would live life as his aunt, not his mother.
She knew she needed to talk to her sister, mitigate the damage.
But, well, the show must go on. And, for now, she had practice to get to.
She knew that, up there onstage, she would be able to forget all about the mess she had just made.
Plus, Easter was only three days away. George would be arriving tomorrow.
(Cue the thudding heart!) There were hams to bake and pies to make and, come on, who would believe her outburst was even real? Certainly not Mason.
Tilley walked into the bathroom to brush her hair and teeth and freshen her makeup.
As she was applying a last dash of mascara, she thought she could just make out a man’s voice coming from downstairs.
Her pulse raced uncomfortably. It certainly wasn’t Parker’s voice.
And, sure, they left the doors unlocked, but no one ever just walked in.
She grabbed her umbrella, which she doubted would do much good when trying to fend off an attacker, but it was better than nothing, and raced toward the stairs, peeking her head down. She could make out a man’s figure in the entrance hall. “Is anyone home?”
“George?”
He snapped his head up toward the stairs as she made her way down.
“Tilley! Just the woman I was hoping to see!”
Oh, the fluttering heart. George was, as always, dressed in a well-pressed suit with a blue-and-white-striped tie.
His face, despite the losses of his past few years, was open and jovial, and, somehow, his receding hairline made him look even more distinguished.
He was handsome, the kind of man that exuded power.
Tilley found herself drawn to him. She hurried down the stairs, and at the foot of them, she imagined, just for a moment, what would happen if he took her in his arms and kissed her. But, of course, he would never.
Instead, he drew her into a quick, friendly hug. “Are you home alone?”
“I am,” Tilley said. “I’m not sure where the kids are.” She looked down at the diamond Tiffany watch that had been her mother’s. “But I’m actually off to play practice, I’m afraid.” She pointed upstairs. “Everything is ready for you, of course. Let me get you settled—”
“No, no,” he interrupted. “Tell me about this play practice.”
Tilley grinned. “You are looking at Cape Carolina’s newest Dolly Levi.”
George clapped his hands. “Am I now?”
She nodded.
“That might be one of the greatest theater roles of all time.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Tilley said. “I haven’t been on the stage since I was a girl, and it has been just fabulous.”
George held out his arm. “What?” she asked.
He grinned. “Well, I’m going to drive you, of course.”
“Oh, well…” Tilley was going to tell George that she was actually driving again.
But the thought of taking his arm, of being escorted by him…
it was too much to possibly turn down. So, instead, she said, “Why, George, you don’t want to waste your time at a small-town play practice when you could be up in your gorgeous rooms resting. ”
He took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “Tilley, I assure you that, if you’re playing Dolly Levi, there’s no place I’d rather be than at your practice.”
A warmth spread over her at the feel of his arm, the kindness of his words.
Tilley was older now, yes. But she knew—just as she had known as a girl—that she was still beautiful.
She could still turn a head. She knew that her mental state had been a problem.
But, despite her episode with Maisy earlier, she was working on that.
Could George see past what others saw? Could he be interested in her, complications and all?
Or was he simply being a gentleman? As they walked to the Jeep that George kept at the small airport here for when he flew back and forth, she let herself imagine that this flirtation wasn’t one-sided. What could it hurt?
George opened the door for her, and, as Tilley stepped in, she said, “I’m making a lemon meringue pie for you for Easter Sunday.”
“Really? Just for me? I thought you only made pecan pie at Easter.” She smiled, charmed that he remembered.
“Well, sure. But for you, George, I’ll break all the rules.”
She was flirting. She had played her hand. It was terribly unladylike, and, she reminded herself, unlikely to be reciprocated. She put her hand to her mouth in embarrassment.
But then George took that hand in his and said, “The feeling is very much mutual. Why do you think I had to get here a day early?” She widened her eyes, and he said, “I simply could not wait another day to see you.”
Tilley’s gasp was not audible, she was happy to say. But she felt it all the way into her stomach. And, minutes later, as George sat in the audience, rapt with attention, never taking his eyes off Tilley, she knew she sang louder, smiled brighter, and danced more lightly on her feet.
“No, it won’t be like the first time, but why does it have to be?
” Tilley crooned. Of course, it made her think of George, of what could be.
She sang, as Dolly, not to look for shooting stars, that love was only love.
It was true, wasn’t it? That grown-up love, second-time-around-love, would be, should be, different.
She would be okay with that, just like Dolly was.
But she had to admit, as she gazed at George in that empty auditorium, she thought that—against all odds—that first-love feeling might have found her again after all.