Page 78 of Hello, Summer
“Before Danielle left, this last time, when we were still trying to save our marriage, we went to counseling. And the therapist—who was a guy, by the way—said something that clicked with me,” Skelly said.
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
Skelly ignored her sarcasm. “He said that seventy-five percent of the issues people have in their relationships—the reason they end up in therapy—is because they just assume things. They assume their partner knows what they want in life. They assume they both share the same values and goals. But you can’t do that. You can’t expect even the person who’s closest to you to know what you’re thinking unless you open up and talk about it in an honest and open way.”
“And did that help?” Conley turned in her seat to face him. “With you and Danielle?”
“Obviously, it wasn’t enough to save our marriage. Once we did start talking, it turns out that I assumed she wanted to stay married to me and live in Silver Bay, maybe even start having kids together. But Danielle didn’t. She assumed I knew she felt trapped—in our marriage, in the situation with my mom, running the family business, all of it.”
“So opening up to each other didn’t really help,” Conley said.
“In a funny way, it did. Not with the marriage, but it helped me clarify things. What I wanted, for instance, and what was important to me. I realized that even if I did what she wanted, things wouldn’t really change between us.” He gave her a sideways glance. “If you tried toreally talk to Grayson, you might be surprised at what she has to say. Running that paper and looking out for your grandmother… I know from my own experience that things can get overwhelming.”
“My sister doesn’t want to talk to me,” Conley said. “She thinks I’m an entitled brat because I got to go off and have the career I wanted, while she stayed home to save theBeacon. You don’t really know my sister, Skelly. She enjoys being a martyr. She should have been a Catholic instead of a Presbyterian. Saint Grayson. Our Lady of Perpetual Sacrifice. That’s my big sister.”
“Isn’t that kind of harsh?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “If her marriage is in trouble, if she and Tony split up, she’s probably feeling pretty damn lonely. And vulnerable.”
“Grayson Hawkins? Vulnerable?” Conley said with a hoot. “Get real.”
27
When she came downstairs Monday morning, Conley found Winnie alone in the kitchen, stemming and slicing strawberries into a colander.
“Where’s G’mama?”
“Gone to the store,” Winnie said, shaking her head in disapproval. “One of the ladies at church brought her a gallon of these strawberries from their farm, and she’s determined to make jam today.”
Conley poured a mug of coffee from the battered aluminum percolator resting on the front burner of the stove. “You let her go by herself?”
“I tried to get her to let me drive, or wait until you were up, but she’s wanting to get going before it gets too hot. She does look a lot better this morning. That knot on her head is almost gone. Anyway, she was just going to the IGA, and it’s not but a few blocks from here.”
Winnie’s turquoise transistor radio was sitting on the windowsill. An announcer was reading the local news, most of it, Conley realized, cribbed directly from last week’s issue of theBeacon.A zoning commission meeting was coming up; construction was slated to begin on an annex to the jail. The Lutheran church was sponsoring summer day camp for needy kids, and the weather was expected to stay the same, hot and sunny.
“In other news, WSVR has learned, Florida’s late congressman Symmes Robinette will be memorialized Tuesday, when his body willlie in state in the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol. Dignitaries expected to attend the service will include all the members of the Florida congressional delegation, the Florida governor and lieutenant governor, and, reportedly, the president and vice president. A contingent of Silver Bay residents will also attend the service, including Robinette’s widow, Mrs. Vanessa Robinette, and his son, Charles Robinette Jr.
“This community has been in mourning since last week’s tragic accident claimed the life of the eighteen-term congressman—”
Winnie reached up and snapped the radio off. “Not everybody is mourning,” she muttered.
Conley regarded the housekeeper over the rim of her coffee mug. “Winnie, can I ask you a question?”
Winnie turned and wiped her berry-stained hands on a dish towel. “About him?”
“Yeah. G’mama never would say what exactly happened, you know, that time you got in trouble.”
“Lorraine likes to call itan unfortunate incident,” Winnie agreed. “You know your grandmother. She likes to tippy-toe around the unpleasant stuff.”
“Must be a family trait,” Conley said. “Do you mind talking about it? I’ve always been curious.”
“There’s not a whole lot to tell,” Winnie said. “I did something the law says I ought not to have. Went to prison for twenty months.”
“What, exactly, did you do?”
Winnie looked out the kitchen window. Bright sunshine streamed in, seagulls cried, and waves crashed on the nearby beach. Just another morning at the beach.
“You know my sister, Nedra, the boys’ mama, died of cancer when she wasn’t even thirty yet. Cancer she got from that railroad switchyard over in Plattesville, where we grew up. The railroad stored barrels of chemicals there for years and years, chemicals they knew caused cancer. Those barrels rusted, and the chemicals leaked out, so the poison went into the lake us kids used to play in. It washed into the drainage ditches where we used to catch tadpoles and into the dirt where my mamaw grew her garden.”
“So you were living on a toxic waste dump,” Conley said.
