The Secret of You and Me - Melissa Lenhardt Page 0,100
of them.
Jeremy watched me through the chicken wire. “I got quite an earful about you and Sophie last night.”
“Did you tell her you knew?”
“Hell, no. And you better take that to your grave.”
I’d confided in Jeremy over a ridiculously expensive bottle of red wine during one of his business trips to DC years earlier. He had been the first person I’d told the entire story, from beginning to end, leaving nothing out. Emmadean knew most, but the version I told her was a PG-13 tragic love story. I hadn’t intended to bare my soul, but the wine was good, and he was a damn fine listener. Jeremy never flinched or blushed. Merely watched me with steady eyes and offered his hand to hold at the absolute perfect time. It was cathartic, a turning point in my life. I met Alima not long after.
“I can’t stay, Jeremy. Everyone will see me as the one who ‘turned’ a loving wife and mother into a lesbian.”
“Move to Austin.”
We could go to Austin and come close to feeling comfortable in our skin, but the threat of violence against us was everywhere. Red state, blue state. It didn’t matter. Sometimes, the most well-meaning people, the “advocates,” would say things and remind you that small-minded people were all around us. Luckily, Logan was almost of age so custody might not be an issue. It was almost a certainty that a homophobic small-town Texas judge would rule against Sophie and require supervised visitation. Too few people would see past the one thing that made us different to see all the ways we were the same. “I have a job.”
“Think Sophie would...”
“It doesn’t matter.” I stepped out of the coop. “Sophie won’t come out, and if she did, I would never ask her to leave her daughter.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“So, are you going to take my chickens?”
Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “Your chickens?”
“Ray’s.”
“Yeah, probably. The kids want them, and I love eggs.”
“Mary is right in that she’ll be the one taking care of them.”
“Oh, she talks a good game, but she’s only truly happy when she’s complaining about something.”
“How can you stand it?”
“She’s a great mother and wife.” Jeremy leaned close. “And, that fire? Translates in private.”
“Oh, hush. I do not want to hear that.” We walked back into the blazing heat.
“One more thing.” Jeremy stopped in the middle of the yard. I squinted up at him against the bright sun. “I confronted Ray. After you told me.”
“You what?”
“I was so pissed for you. I had a big idea I could heal the rift.”
“You’re the best of us, Jeremy.”
“He got angry. Told me to mind my own business.”
“No surprise there.”
“But, after that, he asked me about you all the time. He’d get me alone out here with the chickens and quiz me without actually ever asking about you. It was the damnedest thing, how he did it. He was proud of you.”
“Humph.” I looked out toward the pasture that still needed shredding, though the heat would take care of the weeds soon enough, and swallowed the lump forming in my throat.
“I asked him once if he wanted your number. He said he’d had the same home phone number for forty years. You knew how to get in touch with him.”
“Stubborn to the end.”
Jeremy put a hand on my shoulder. “Take a lesson, sis. Don’t let your stubbornness get in the way of your happiness.”
* * *
“I can’t believe we didn’t sell more.”
Emmadean looked around the half-empty den with a sad expression. I followed her gaze and caught Mary’s eye. Neither of us was surprised. Ray had kept the bones of the house up—the plumbing, electricity, the roof, etc.—so chances are we wouldn’t have much trouble selling it. But, the inside, the decor? Hadn’t changed since the Reagan Administration. The first one. Every piece of furniture had thirty years of wear on it. Everything was shabby, and not in a chic sort of way. The junkers found nothing inside to entice them and focused on things in the barn. That was Dormer’s domain, and he held on tightly to things I would have given away. The hipster estate buyers from Austin practically turned their noses up at Ray’s stuff, eliciting from me an unexpected, and alarming, defensiveness. Even the locals found little to like, though the women cleaned out the kitchen quick enough. Privately, I hadn’t expected the shabbiness to matter to country folk, had expected all Ray’s crap to be scooped up within a couple of hours. It turned