Chapter 13 Audrey #2
“Oh, my dear Lord in heaven, you saved her life!” A woman’s voice broke through the buzz in my head. “Praise Jesus! That was divine intervention, if ever I saw it! You are a hero, young lady! Did anyone get those plates? They were going faster than a bat outta you-know-where.”
“Let go of me!” the little girl screeched.
“You almost got run over by that truck,” I said, finally finding my voice.
“No, I didn’t. Let go! You got me dirty!” She pulled her dress away from her chest, and yes, there was a splotch of peach ice cream. My former cone.
Suddenly, a man was there, talking to me and the girl at once.
“Mathilda, my God, thank you so much, she never does this, honey, what have I told you about the street, really, thank you, my gosh, Mattie, you could’ve been killed.
” He scooped her into his arms and buried his face against her hair.
“Thank God, honey. Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you.” He was white-faced and shaking like a leaf.
After a second or two, he looked up. “Are you all right, miss?”
I wasn’t sure. I stood up, brushing grit off my skirt. The back of my head was sore, and I felt a lump there. A blob of ice cream had fallen onto my sneaker, the cold of it oozing against my foot. Just seconds ago, I was eating a cone. It felt like ten years had passed since then.
“Sir, this here lady saved your little girl’s life,” said the woman who’d called me a hero.
There was a crowd of people now, some with phones out, though the drama had passed.
“You’d best keep a closer eye on your child.
She ran right toward the street without so much as a spit in the dirt.
She was nearly mown down by a truck! You should thank the Lord Almighty this one here grabbed her. ”
“Yes, ma’am, of course, you’re right,” said the man. He looked at me. “My gosh. I’m so sorry. Thank you for saving my daughter. Good Lord, thank you so much. I had a student looking after her, but Mathilda’s so dang fast. She just . . .” His blue eyes filled with tears.
“That lady hurt me, Daddy,” she said, rubbing her arm where I’d grabbed her.
“That lady saved your life, Mathilda. Say thank you.”
She glared at me.
A doe-eyed girl, maybe twenty, appeared. “Clay, I’m so sorry! She was there, then she was just gone! I chased right after her, but gosh dang it, there was no stopping her! Mathilda, you just about gave me a heart attack!”
“I’m sticky! That lady made me dirty!” the kid said.
“She stopped you from getting squished by a truck, Mathilda,” said her father, calmer now. “You thank her right now, missy.”
His little girl looked at me. She was beautiful, even when scowling. “Thank you.”
“Ma’am,” her father corrected.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
In college, I’d taken a World Religion class, and a phrase came to me.
Whoever saves a life saves the world. Also, something about if you save someone’s life, you’re responsible for that person forever.
(That may have been from a kung fu movie, though.) “You’re welcome, sweetheart,” I said. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Would you please take her back inside, Tara?” the dad asked, and Doe Eyes led the little girl back into the building, glancing back at us. Or him, rather.
Then the father said, “Miss, I cannot thank you enough. I think I owe you a drink at the very least. Probably dinner. Probably dinner for the rest of your natural life, even.” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled.
“It was just instinct,” I said.
“Well, apparently no one else had that instinct,” he said, gesturing at the now-dispersing crowd. It was true. I’d been the only one to react. “I’m Clayton Joyce,” he said. “I’m guest-lecturing at SCAD on furniture-making. Please let me thank you properly. You can vet me if you need to.”
A furniture-maker. And me an interior designer. “Audrey Porter.”
He smiled again, then sat down on the step of the building he’d come out of. He gave an uneven sigh, then wiped his eyes. “Lord, that child will be the death of me.”
I sat next to him, the adrenaline rush gone, my legs now wobbly. “How old is she?”
“Four and a half, and quite a handful since her mama died. I’ve been fixin’ to find her a decent nanny, but . . .” He glanced up at me again. “I’m sorry. More than you need to know.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “That’s devastating.”
“Yes, ma’am, it was. Been almost a year now.” He gave himself a little shake. “Well, now. What do you say? Will you let me take you out and buy you a drink? Sweet tea or a cup of coffee? I feel like I need to spend a little time with the woman who just rescued my child.”
The fear had caught up with me, and my hands were shaking now. I’d been terrified of car accidents since Mom died, and yet I’d run into the street. I was a hero.
“Miss Porter? What do you say?” Clay asked.
I’d saved his child’s life. The fog I’d been living in since my mother died stirred and thinned. “Yes. I’d love that.” I looked into his eyes and smiled back.
The next night, we met at the bar at the Mansion on Forsyth Park, his choice.
In other words, a statement. He kissed me on the cheek when I got there, and his hand stayed on my back as we were seated.
The talk was easy, as it was with most Southerners I’d met, but there was something else, too.
A thrum in the soft air, a warm look in Clay’s eyes.
Clayton Joyce was every good thing a Southern gentleman was supposed to be.
He was charming, polite and handsome, neatly dressed, and he smelled like fresh-cut wood and leather .
. . a cologne I would later learn was, in fact, called Southern Man.
He was a master carpenter who made furniture and was teaching a two-week intensive course.
“Sometimes I think the wood speaks to me,” he said with a shy grin.
“Tells me what it wants to be. I know that sounds downright woo-woo, but there it is.”
“I think it sounds lovely,” I said.
He blushed a little, and my heart swelled.
“I gotta ask, just for the record, and because the server there carded you,” he said. “How old are you? Because I’m thirty-six, and if you’re twenty-one, well, that just wouldn’t feel right.”
Doesn’t want to date out of his age range. Check. “I’m thirty-two, actually. Good genes, I guess.” I got carded all the time. And yikes, I was thirty-two! I’d been out of school and living in the South for a decade, and that wasn’t even counting college.
“All righty, then,” said Clay. “Hey, I know this is corny as hell, but I could swear we’ve met before. This just feels too easy.” Another crinkly-eyed smile.
“So Mathilda’s mother . . .” I said, taking a sip of my sauvignon blanc.
He nodded sadly. “My Caroline died of cancer, God bless her. Ten months ago. Poor little Mathilda took it real hard, of course. She’s my whole world now.” His eyes got shiny, and he gave another shy smile, as if embarrassed at his love for his daughter.
And that was that. Suddenly, I had purpose.
Despite avoiding romance novels since high school, I knew this was exactly what the books had promised.
A dramatic meet-cute, an untamed child, a man who needed a good woman to help him heal.
It was destiny, I told myself later that night as I dissected every word.
The first man I’d felt anything for in more than a decade had a little girl who needed a mother.
I, a motherless woman who’d lost her own mom in a car accident, had just saved a motherless child from a car accident.
Kismet, or fate, or the guiding hand of my mother (and maybe even Mathilda’s mother!).
Clayton and Mathilda Joyce needed me.
For the next six months, Clay and I dated.
He and Mattie lived in Richmond Hills, Caroline’s hometown, just half an hour outside Savannah.
We fell into the habit of seeing each other a couple times a week, him coming to Savannah, then me driving to see him.
Mathilda spent those times with Caroline’s parents, “a balm to their souls,” Clay said.
On the times when I did get to lay eyes on her, my heart lit up. “Hey, honey,” I’d say. “It’s so nice to see you. What did you do today?”
She wouldn’t answer, just glared at me, but Clay assured me that was normal. “Don’t pay her no never mind,” he said. “She’s just goin’ through a phase with strangers.”
His house was quite nice, decorated by Caroline with “Southern charm,” which generally meant pretty throw pillows, wicker furniture and blue mason jars (practically a Georgia state law).
Much of the maple furniture—the dining room table, chairs and sideboard, the coffee table and bookcases—had been made by Clay’s own hands.
After a month of dating, I imagined gradually mixing in my style, getting rid of the damask curtains, widening the front entryway, exposing the brick chimney and culling the many decorative signs—Blessed, Southern, Pray, Gather, Coffee, Relax, Laundry, Harvest.
Clay was cautious about having me spend time with Mattie, saying he didn’t want her to get attached “before we know where things are headed.” I respected that.
If I spent the night, it was always when Mathilda was with Ephraim and Betty, her maternal grandparents, who watched her when Clay worked.
Caroline had been an only child, and of course, her parents were heartbroken when she died.
Clay’s own parents had relocated to Oregon ten years ago.
There were pictures of Caroline everywhere, and she had been absolutely beautiful.
I would make her glad Mathilda had found such a kind and understanding stepmother.
Eventually, if Mathilda wanted to call me Mom, that would be fine.
Caroline would always be Mama. I was blessed with two mothers, Mathilda would say at her wedding.
The mama who gave birth to me and was taken so young, and Audrey, the mom who raised me.
I just can’t help but think my first mama put you in my path that day, saving my life, Mom. I love you.