Mariama looked uneasy. “Are you ready for your walk with Miss Vivien?”
Georgia-May took two steps forward and offered me her arm. “Vivien! You look absolutely divine. I’m so delighted Ashton married you. What a lucky man he is. Forgive me, my dear, for not recognizing you sooner. I’ve been a little confused lately.”
“No problem. Shall we go for our walk? It’s such a beautiful day. I thought we could wander down to the pond and look at the goldfish.”
“That would be lovely. You may leave us now, Mariama.” Georgia-May held up her head haughtily and motioned for her nurse to leave us.
Georgia-May had no trouble walking; physically she was in great shape. It was just this “forgetfulness” she had trouble with.
“Isn’t it the most stunning September day?” I said brightly. “I love it here, those huge trees and so much chattering birdsong. It’s such a lovely place to live, don’t you think?” I wanted to make her feel positive about her life, that she wasn’t cooped up in some sort of institution, that she was here by choice.
“I guess I have to take the rough with the smooth, but then I do feel like I’m in jail some days. Ashton hasn’t visited in forever. He doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“That’s not true, Georgia-May, he talks about you all the time,” I lied. “He misses you terribly.”
“That’s a fib and you know it.”
“I promise. Ashton misses you. Misses his dad too.”
She turned silent, and I could sense an invisible barrier draw up between us. It wasn’t true what I’d said. I just wanted to make her feel good. Also, I was hoping she’d share a little about Ashton’s past. Ashton never mentioned his father. Only that he had died at sea during a storm and Ashton was with him on that fateful day. Every time I fished for details, Ashton changed the subject, or became taciturn—a trick he used often. And then I always felt tactless pushing or prying for more information. Last time I’d asked him, he’d said, “I’ll tell you all about it some other time, I promise.”
But he still never had.
Ashton hardly ever spoke about his childhood. Just occasional anecdotes about going fishing with his dad or about high school or college—how he excelled at football and always managed top grades, despite being a pretty wild partygoer. Once, he did share something deeper about himself—after he’d had a few too many beers. That his cheerleading girlfriend, Belle, the love of his life, had married his best friend, Bradley. He and Bradley had never quite made up.
No, Ashton had not shared too much of his past or his family dynamics with me.
In contrast, I had a thousand stories about my mom and dad. How in love they were, how they talked together in French when I was a little girl, so I couldn’t understand. How spoiled I was. How Mom had had several miscarriages before me, so by the time I came along, I was the most treasured thing in their world. I told him that my life had basically ended when they died, and how I had to do everything to stay strong. I often chatted to Ashton about my life growing up in New York. Picnics in Central Park, visits to the New York Public Library, where I first learned about my passion for books. And Ashton had continued with this picnic tradition. Our marriage, I told him, had pulled me out of my grief. He was everything to me. He was my world, my kingpin, my one hope for repairing everything I had lost.
Georgia-May and I ambled through the grounds with linked arms. A squirrel dashed across the path then scrambled up an oak tree. Tweets of birdsong filtered through the branches, the sunlight catching its leaves with lashes of pale gold. Our gazes simultaneously followed the creature as it zipped along to join its friend.
That weird note popped into my head. I pushed it away. My mind wandered back to Ashton, wondering if he was anything like his father. Every scrap of information I gleaned would help me know my husband better. Marriages are like gardens; you have to tend them constantly. Just when the roses bloom little weeds peek through the earth, and if you don’t pluck them out when they’re tender, they grow thick and stubborn.
“What was Ashton’s father like?” I asked Georgia-May as we ambled along together, slow as snails.
She stopped walking. “Buck Buchanan had powers of persuasion. And charm. Jackson Holt had asked for my hand in marriage, you know, but I foolishly turned him down. Chose Buck instead. Jackson became an attorney. Very wealthy, but I lived a life of relative poverty with Buck. I was a real beauty, you know, I could have chosen any number of beaux.” She looked up at the tree as if in another world.
“I bet you were. You’re still a beauty, Georgia-May.” I hid my surprise at what she had alluded to… that she had made a mistake marrying Buck.
She was really stunning for her age. She had a heart-shaped face and a cute, pointy little chin and big, big, blue eyes. Silvery blonde hair and high cheekbones, and what really made her lovely was her beautiful nose. I noticed noses. Noses can make or break a person’s face, and Georgia-May’s nose was fine and elegant, ever so slightly retroussé. It fit her countenance perfectly. She was petite, slim, and probably quite athletic in her day. She still had very fine ankles and wrists and an elegant long neck. She always wore double pearls, even when paired with sneakers and a jogging suit. Today she was all in white.
She began to shake with excitement, and yanked my arm closer. “You hear that? That musical series of rapid warbling notes? See if you can spot those frisky, elusive birds. It’s the painted bunting that sings like that. The one with the bright reddish-orange breastplate and purple-blue head? Look! You saw it? He just flew out of that oak! Such a beautiful bird. That’s the male. The female is yellowish in color.”
“I’m sorry. I missed it,” I said, disappointed. “Darn, how did I miss that?” I let a good amount of silence lapse then pressed her again. “Tell me more about Buck. Ashton says he was the best shrimper in South Carolina.”
Georgia-May started walking again and replied dreamily, “You know, Ashton is such a good boy, a sweet-natured child. He likes to collect butterflies. He loves beautiful things, he has quite a collection. He even helps me bake cakes sometimes. Always full of concern always kind. He thinks about others less fortunate than himself. Says he wants to be a doctor when he grows up. Such an adorable child. He takes our eggs to old Mrs. Zachery, offers to wash her car for her. Never asks for a cent in return. He’s a darling boy. And, oh, what a smart mind! He’s not like his father at all.” Her face suddenly darkened and a fire lit in her eyes. “Oh, no, siree. Nothing like than mean son-of-a-gun, Buck. Ashton’s father is a brute sometimes.”
I noticed how she was suddenly talking in the present tense. “Why?” I asked, all ears. “What did… what does Buck do?” I was tempted to ask her if Buck had been abusive, but of course I couldn’t… that would have been too intrusive.
She smiled and looked all sweetness and light again, the flashing fury I’d just witnessed wiped clean from her face. “Buck? Why he was a real charmer, very handsome, the most charming man this side of Beaufort County. We were extremely happy. The envy of all. Such a happy marriage.” Georgia-May stopped walking and glanced up to the trees again then back to me.
I was agog, her sudden change of humor, and her story changing on the flip of a dime.