Chapter 5
VIVIAN JEAN
Hartfield House, Bronzeville, Chicago
The birthday celebration ends shortly after my parents’ departure. I bid farewell to our guests and promise Katherine that I’ll be ready for the Abbotts’ reception in an hour. I still haven’t had a chance to talk to her, but I will make time during our ride over to the party.
“We can all go together,” Katherine says, winking at Tully as we escort her to the foyer.
“Send a car for me. I hate driving at night.” She gracefully exits the house, and I watch from the vestibule window as she enters her automobile, parked in our circular drive.
She waves just before lowering herself into the driver’s seat, knowing I’ll be watching enviously.
I can’t drive a car. Teaching me how wasn’t a priority for my father or my first husband, and after Clifford’s accident, I lost interest in learning.
Though Tully promised to teach me—but that was before.
“I’ll wear my pink silk gown to the reception—and the gift from the major.
” I waltz into our bedroom ahead of Tully.
“The jeweler did a splendid job, don’t you think?
” I touch the pocket watch nervously. No matter how we might have acted toward the end of the party, the tension between us weighs heaviest when Tully and I are alone.
He walks past me and dumps the gifts he’s carrying onto our canopied bed.
“You should’ve talked to him before this afternoon.” He immediately beelines for the small table beside the dresser where he keeps his bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a tumbler. “We could’ve avoided that little show.”
“It’s water under the bridge,” I say, and Tully grunts as if he’s been punched in the gut. My poor choice of words triggered his reaction.
Clifford died when his car crashed into the Clark Street Drawbridge and he drowned in the Chicago River.
The accident occurred on the evening of December 10, the same day he transferred the trust fund and the same date written on the note that has caused Tully and me so much pain, sorrow, and discord.
This note, lost for months, was discovered by a carpenter four weeks ago under a file cabinet in Clifford’s office, now the new library of Hartfield House.
December 10, 1933
I know what you’ve done. For all these years, you have
been nothing but a liar—a fraud.
And I know who you don’t love and who you truly
love.
It’s wrong, and you will come to regret it.
Clifford
The note was too cryptic to take seriously, I told Tully.
There’s no way to know to whom Clifford was writing or what he was writing about.
“You keep insisting that the note, the trust fund, and the car accident are connected, but it’s a tragic coincidence,” I argued.
Except Tully doesn’t believe in coincidences.
“Water under the bridge, huh?” Tully growls, pulling me out of my memories. “Like the note Clifford wrote?”
“Don’t do that, Tully. Please don’t change the subject. I made a mistake. I wasn’t thinking when I said it.”
“I’m not changing, I’m trying to finish a conversation you don’t want to have.”
“Because it’s ridiculous. Clifford didn’t write that note about us. He had no reason to. We weren’t having an affair.”
“I know that, but what if he thought we were?”
“What if nothing?” I shout. “Clifford never questioned my loyalty, and if he hadn’t died, you and I would never have married.” I cover my mouth. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
“You said it exactly as you meant it. I am fully aware that I married a woman who doesn’t love me.”
“Oh my God. How can you say that? After all we’ve been through. You know I love you, but you’re using that damn note to tear us apart, and I don’t understand why.”
“I need another drink.”
“You’ve had enough, Tully.”
“I’m a grown man, Vivi. I can drink as much as I want, whenever I want.
“Don’t call me Vivi. I don’t like it.”
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled, honey.” He holds up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “You sure you don’t want one?”
“Tully, don’t do this.”
“Do what?” he replies flippantly. “Get angry when we aren’t being honest with each other, Vivi?”
“Damn it, Tully. Stop calling me that!”
“No need to get hysterical, my love.”
“I am not fucking hysterical.” I begin taking off my dress. “If you keep that up,” I point at his glass, “you’ll be boiled as an owl at the reception.”
“I’m already boiled.”
With a groan of frustration, I slip out of my dress, nearly ripping a seam. Then, freeing my silk stockings from the garters, I roll them down as if they’re made of razor blades. “Sarcasm is not attractive on you, dear.”
“Lies aren’t attractive on you.” Tully steps away from his makeshift bar toward me. “You’re too scared to admit you believe me about the note.”
There is a strangeness in his voice, a warning. He’ll say something awful if I don’t stop him.
“Let’s not fight tonight. Not before we leave for Jamaica,” I plead.
“I can’t stand listening to you say the same cruel things over and over.
” I stab at my chest with my fingertip. “Here, in my heart, in my soul, it hurts so badly I could die from some of the things you imply. Clifford didn’t kill himself. ”
“How can you be so sure?” Tully cries.
“Shut up!” I grab a bottle of perfume and brace to throw it at Tully, but I don’t want to hit him.
I don’t want to hurt him, and I wish he didn’t want to hurt me.
My arm falls limp. “The note isn’t about us.
I don’t know who it’s about, but I’m going to figure it out, and when I do, you’ll have to swallow your lies, because there’s no reason for them.
” I charge forward and grab his shoulders. “You need to stop this.”
He gently grips my wrists. “Let go.”
The walls move in on me, surrounding me, dangerously close. They know I am losing control. And I can’t allow that. Not before I receive forgiveness at the sacred silk cotton tree. I lower my arms and step back.
The anger washes out of me, leaving Tully and me in an uncomfortable silence.
It lasts an endless, heart-sickening moment, and then Tully strides toward the door with long, quick steps. “I’ll see you on the midnight train.”
I flinch. “You’re not coming to the reception?”
He halts and pivots, retracing his path until he reaches my side. Gently touching my face, he caresses my cheek. I lean into him, and he kisses me softly on the lips, a lingering kiss that ends too soon. “You’ll have a better time without me.”
“Tully, please. Katherine will be disappointed.”
He looks at me as if I were a rare, mysterious beauty, but I am none of those things. When his lips brush against mine once more, I tremble. “I do love you, Vivian Jean. It’s just that I hate how much I love you.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me staring blankly at the spot in the bedroom where he stood just a moment ago. I feel the pressure of his hands on my face, smell the whiskey on his breath, and feel the warmth of his lips on my mouth.
What had Tully’s father said? Tully and I are survivors. Can we survive this?
Terrible things happen.
Things that rip your heart apart and smash your bones. Horrible things that sneak around a corner or rise from under the bed and slam the door in your face. You pray you’ll be ready for those sorrows—but can you truly prepare for every heartbreak?
I sink to the floor, feeling my chest ache and gasping for air, fighting back the tears I can’t stop. I bury my face in the folds of my pink gown and weep.
Maxi finds me on the floor, a sobbing mess, and immediately begins to piece me back together. Working swiftly and silently, she helps me stand, leads me to the bathroom, and guides me onto the vanity stool, where I collapse, still weeping.
She douses my face with cold water. “Stop crying,” she says sternly. “You’ve shed enough tears.”
But have I? It isn’t what Tully said that disturbs me. It’s the look in his eyes, the coldness of his stare, and the finality of that kiss.
“What if Jamaica is a fool’s errand, Maxi? What if there’s nothing that can save Tully and me? No miracles, no spirits, no sacred silk cotton tree?”
It’s the truth: The real reason I must journey to Jamaica’s Cockpit Country, the real reason I must join Katherine’s expedition, the real reason I have persuaded my husband to join me on this journey is Clifford.
I must talk to him. His ghost will forgive me.
The duppies, the ancestors of the sacred silk cotton tree, will help me talk to him.
Turning slightly, I catch sight of the crumpled pink fabric in a pile on the bedroom floor. “I ruined my evening gown.”
“Don’t worry about that dress,” Maxi replies as she picks it up from the floor. “You have others.” She takes the gown into my walk-in closet and comes out with a mint-green sheer chiffon dress. “This one looks great on you, and the neckline will showcase your father’s gift perfectly.”
I had forgotten about the dress, its gorgeous puff sleeves and matching green rose corsage. “I wish you’d come with us to Jamaica.”
“I told you, I’ll never return to the Cockpit or Accompong.”
Maxi has told me this before—numerous times—but she rarely shares more than a few words about the reason. I know it involves Obeah, a healing practice from her village that is rooted in African tradition but also illegal in Jamaica, as I learned from Katherine.
I glance in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and my hair is a mess. “God. Should I even bother?”
“Bother to go to Jamaica or to the reception, or both?”
I am tempted to respond both, but before I can, Maxi is brushing my hair, and none too gently.
“It doesn’t matter what you say. You’re doing both. So, let’s wash your face again, fix your hair, and put on this dress. Your silk slip will look lovely beneath the sheer chiffon.”
“If you insist.”
“I insist. Now, let’s get you into this gown. The car has already left to pick up Miss Dunham. They’ll be here any moment.”