chapter 8
Gus
After dinner, Decca guided me to the backyard, where the fire waited to be lit. As she backed out the door, her eyes lingered on my still full glass of wine leftover from dinner.
I opened my mouth to answer her unasked questions, but I was stopped short by the sight before me.
Her front yard was wild and unkempt, lush with color and texture, but here, out back, was a dream; something out of a garden magazine. Or it would be with a little TLC. The enormity of the landscaping took my breath away.
Low, woven fences and stone walls divided sections of the garden here and there, lending it a historic feel. Pea gravel paths spiraled around plantings, dividing the space into four organically shaped quadrants. A Tudor-style shed stood in the back of the deep lot under the shade of the trees.
The whole thing might have looked weedy to some eyes, especially at night.
I saw nothing but magic.
I’d never been a plant guy, unless you counted my weekly chore of mowing the funeral home lawn. Now, my fingers itched to give this bit of earth the attention it deserved, to restore the beauty I knew it contained. Maybe I should’ve gone into landscaping instead of the priesthood. “This is… Dec, this is gorgeous.”
“I haven’t been able to spend much time out here lately. I’m never home.”
“Did you design this?”
“Some of it. Granny bought this house after my mom died. The garden was a project for us. A way of helping us come together and heal from the loss. The look of it changed over time as I grew older. Different influences flowed into my life, and I poured them out in the garden. It went through a heavy seashell phase after I read a book on the Groves of Versailles in middle school. I was a weird kid. I’m sorry you’re seeing the garden now, at its worst.”
“How long has it been since you’ve really gotten your hands dirty out here?”
“Three years.”
“Since Granny died,” I said what she couldn’t.
Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded. Her crumpled face made my heart seize, but I didn’t make a move toward her. A hug wasn’t what she needed. Three years was too long for her not to be working this land. It had once been a tribute and a source of healing after her mom’s death.
It could be the same for her granny.
“Can you teach me to garden?”
She looked up, surprised. Her lips parted, as if to argue. But she didn’t argue. She nodded. Something that looked like hope bloomed in her eyes.
Wind rushed through the leafy canopy of the tall, uplit trees in the corner, and their limbs bowed with a graceful arc. Decca’s face glowed brighter as the silver clouds pushed past the moon, unveiling the bright orb in its fullness.
White flowers and leaves appeared from under the blanket of night, like Decca’s white velvet skin against the backdrop of her black attire. I wasn’t sure if her look was intentional. I hoped so. I hoped she admired her own beauty, the same way she’d cultivated the beauty in her garden. I hoped she’d never felt anything less than bewitching, and all her past boyfriends had lavished praise on her. I knew I would, once we got to that point. Until then, I’d just have to save it all up. All my appreciation and desire.
I couldn’t help but stare at the shadows and light playing on her face as she fiddled with a matchbox and her wineglass, distracted by something.
In the center of the garden, the bonfire dominated the landscape—or it would as soon as it was lit. A small, stone wall rose out of the black slate ring of patio. In the center, logs rested in a teepee, waiting to rage into an inferno.
Decca placed her glass on the arm of one of the Adirondack chairs and slid open the matchbox. Taking a breath, she struck the match, staring into the flame but making no move to light the kindling.
The match burned so low it licked her fingertips. She closed her eyes and waved her hand to blow it out.
Had I said something wrong?Of course I had. I’d said at least seventeen things wrong tonight. I’d made it weird. Over and over again. I was so nervous around her. I’d never been nervous around a woman before. But Decca wasn’t just another woman. She was everything.
Tonight, I acted intrusive and gross. I’d come onto her, after I’d told myself I wouldn’t. I’d made her feel my dick. That had definitely not been the plan.
But the way she clung to me. It didn’t feel friendly. The way she kept looking at my mouth like she wanted me to kiss her. The way she blushed, and the way her eyes got all dreamy when we talked about sex, it had been so unexpected.
“You know, most people actually light the fire when they invite someone over for a bonfire.”
“Yeah,” she laughed. “Uh, I’m working up to it. I haven’t lit it since...”
“Granny,” I finished for her.
She nodded.
I stepped closer to her, lifting the box out of her hands before squeezing them gently. “So, we work up to it together. And tonight we watch the moon.”
Her shoulders sagged in relief before taking a deep breath.
“Thank you, Gus. For everything. But mostly, for being gentle with me.”
I didn’t bother with a response. There would come a time—quite soon, if I had my way—where I wouldn’t be so gentle with her. I didn’t want to be thanked yet.
I lowered myself into the big chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. I could see why she liked it out here. Even with the southern summer humidity, everything felt perfect in this overgrown bed of weeds.
“I don’t like to make a big deal out of it,” I said lightly, “but I’m not a big drinker.” Not only did we need a change of subject, but I needed to get us back on the path to understanding one another.
“What? Oh, you mean the wine?” She lowered her own glass from her lips.
“I drink so people see me drinking. I don’t want to give people the impression of moral superiority. I always felt like priests who drink are regular guys. Easy to talk to. Someone you can bond with. Someone who understands.”
“You don’t feel the need to bond with me?”
“I don’t need alcohol to bond with you.” Her eyes were always doing something big and expressive. This time, when I looked into them across the unlit bonfire, they softened. I cleared my throat. “And I drink to keep up a small tolerance so I don’t get drunk on table wine or with friends. I’m particularly good at nursing the same beer for over an hour without anyone noticing.”
She set her glass down again and clasped her hands in her lap.
“I’m not saying that so you stop. I’m letting you in on my secret, because it’s something a wife should know. I’m not opposed to alcohol. There’s a fully stocked bar in our church hall. Father Vasili shares a six-pack with Dad once a week. I just…” I rubbed the nape of my neck where my hair was getting to that annoying, too-long stage, and itching under my shirt collar. “I don’t entirely trust myself. When I was young, I drank. A lot. I smoked a lot. I did bad things.” My eyes flicked up to hers before I glanced back at the wine. Her expression was tender, waiting. Not pitying, she was giving me the strength to continue. “Well, you know what I did. Everyone knows. But for me, it’s all wrapped up in that same package.”
Her hand rested on my forearm. Squeezing lightly. Telling me it was okay. Except it wasn’t. It would never be okay. How would it ever be okay that I’d fucked my brother’s wife? That he’d had to see it.
No matter how much counseling, no matter how much theoretical forgiveness I received, from priests, from Dad, from George himself, I’d never forgive myself. “In a way, it’s freeing that everyone knows my deepest shame,” I continued quietly. “But I think… there are some sins that never stop chasing you.”
It didn’t even make me emotional anymore. I was resigned to my guilt. I couldn’t do any more work to move past it, so I worked around it. But that left Decca in an impossible position of giving the greatest gift—lifelong companionship—to someone who’d never deserve her.
I could give her so little in return. There was so little of me left.
“Dec, let’s not do this.”
Her lips parted, unspoken words on her tongue, a flicker of anger in her eyes. “The marriage, you mean.”
She knew I wasn’t talking about the therapy session. She sipped from her glass and lost her focus somewhere in the imaginary flames.
“Look, honey, it was a selfless, compassionate idea, but I can’t do that to you. There’s no out.”
Her eyes darted to me, not quite meeting my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean to me, marriage is for life. Even an arranged marriage. Or whatever you proposed. This isn’t some quick solution—I get something, you get nothing, then we go our separate ways. I’m not saying we can’t get divorced if we end up hating each other, but I’ll definitely lose my job. Priests are rarely allowed to divorce and remain in the priesthood, so if you’re doing this so I can be a priest, it just puts us in an even worse position when, one day, you finally fall in love with the person you should have waited for.”
“There’s a lot to unpack in that suitcase.”
“Well, you say you’re up for being my wife. Start unpacking.”
She looked confused. Angry. “What makes you think I’m that callous when it comes to seven millennia of tradition—that we know of—and globally and historically recognized social customs? Why would you think I’d be that callous when it comes to you? You think just because I don’t subscribe to any one religious dogma, I don’t take marriage seriously? You think I planned to marry you and if it doesn’t work out, we divorce a year later? I didn’t propose a hand fasting and, trust me, I’m educated enough to know the difference.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know,” she snapped. The reflection of the moon in her eyes added to the bite of her words. But it was the bite of a kitten. Tiny needle kitten teeth, so cute they almost didn’t hurt.
She deflated, sighing and swiping her bangs out of her face. “I don’t know the first thing about marriage. I’ve never even been in love, so I’ve never considered what I might want out of a marriage. It’s fun to think about this as an anthropological experiment, but there’s got to be something deeper here we’re not touching on.”
“You want more than a list of rules. Not who gets the bathroom first, but—”
“I want the rules of love.” She looked at me. Silence hung in the air as we locked eyes. Neither of us spoke for several seconds. “I want to love you, Gus. I want you to love me. But I don’t know what that means.”
Her words hit me in the chest like a hockey check. Until now, we’d been skating along, passing the puck, and playing our positions. Then wham! A hit to center mass. A solid granite block of truth had knocked the wind out of me, jerking me backward off my feet and onto my ass.
Decca took a sip of wine and stared into her glass, probably just to give herself something to do while I recovered.
The hardest part was, I wanted the same thing.
I wanted to love her and earn her love. To see if anything had changed in the last decade I’d spent praying and learning.
It was selfish to say yes, but that’s what had motivated me. Not the promise of sex. Not so I could have someone to share meals with, and talk through an annual re-watch of the Lord of the Rings movies. I wanted to share life with her. All of life. The messy and the wonderful. She just happened to be the one brave enough to say it out loud first.
“I’m sorry if that’s not—”
“That is what I want.“ I didn’t wait another second to reassure her she wasn’t alone in this. Not alone with the manic hopes or the we should probably know betters. “So, let’s sketch out what love looks like for us. I mean, we’ll probably get it all wrong in the beginning. But we need something to start with. A path.”
She shook her head. “A skeleton.” Her eyes looked warm with love already.
“Bones.” I nodded. “The bones of love. I’m willing to dig, if you are.”