Hez pulled him into a man hug. “Of course I do. We’ll always be best buds.”
The glee in Michael’s face ebbed, and he grabbed Simon’s arm and drew him away from Hez. “Say goodbye, Simon. It’s time to gohome.”
Simon pulled his arm away. “Bye, Aunt Savannah. I’ll call you.” He hugged her, and she clung to him until Michael pulled him back with an impatient huff.
Hez clapped Simon on the shoulder. “I’ll call you about the wedding.”
Michael took Simon’s hand and led him toward the exit. Simon glanced back at Savannah with a forlorn expression before the courtroom door swung shut with a finality that broke her heart.
Michael kissed the soft petals, then bent and placed a single perfect red rose on Marie’s grave. “We won. Our grandson is a Willard. I promised our love would never die, and it hasn’t. The burned and hacked stump has grown a fresh shoot. He’ll be a great man, maybe the greatest of us all. You’ll be proud of him.”
A gust of wind tossed the old branches high overhead and thunder boomed in the distance. A storm had been brewing on that day, but he and Marie hadn’t cared. After she finished the poem for Mama’s fiftieth birthday, Michael and Marie had kept meeting. They discovered that they both liked bluesy jazz, good coffee, beachcombing after a storm, and walking in the woods.
Tongues started to wag, of course, so they had stayed out of the public eye to avoid any “misunderstandings.” It had all been innocent, at least from Marie’s perspective. She was lonely and appreciated having a friend and sounding board for new poems. Michael enjoyed her company and—to hissurprise—poetry. And he could feel her defenses slowly coming down, like a stone wall undermined by the gentle stream flowing at its base—until it came down with a sudden crash.
The crash had come on a blustery spring day. They had met for a walk at a nature preserve east of Foley. Marie had left Savannah with the nanny, saying she would spend the afternoon composing in the woods, which had been true enough. She and Michael walked under the tupelos and live oaks as wind gusted in the trees, carrying the scent of coming rain. She made up verse, remade it, and asked his opinion. He had loved it all, which alternately pleased and frustrated her.
She’d looked up at him, green eyes even more vibrant than usual thanks to the fresh emerald backdrop of the forest. “How can I get better if you never tell me when I’m bad?”
He smiled. “If you’re ever bad, I’ll tell you.”
She quirked a smile. “You have no standards—which I both love and hate. Here, let me read you something really good.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a book—she always had a book of poetry with her—and read to him. It had been E. E. Cummings, mostly poems about spring. Michael still remembered some of them: “i thank You God for most this amazing,” “in Just-,” “And this day it was Spring... us.” She started to read “‘I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart),’” but her voice caught in her throat.
The storm hit then, sudden and fierce. Wind whipped through the trees, followed by a wall of falling water. Michael pulled her against the gnarled bole of an ancient oak, out of the pelting rain. She looked up from the circle of his arms, hair dripping and eyes wide. Her breath had been shallow anduneven. She had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He bent and pressed his lips against hers as the storm raged around them. She froze for an instant—and then responded with electric intensity. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with a passion that stunned him.
Then the moment ended. She broke away from him and staggered back. She gasped and touched her lips as the rain streamed down her face.
He held out his arms toward her. “I love you, Marie! Come away with me! Come away with me forever!”
She turned and ran.
He called her name, but she didn’t slow down. He ran after her. He reached the parking lot just as she roared away in the fancy SUV Pierre had bought her. Michael climbed into his pickup and drove home through the downpour, convinced that his plan had failed. Worse, he realized that he’d told the truth in the forest: He really did love Marie. And now he’d lost her forever.
But late that night, his phone had rung. “Did you mean it?” Marie asked without preamble.
“Mean what?”
“What you said today. Do you love me? Do you want me to come away with you forever?”
“Yes!”
She’d gone silent a moment before answering. “Then come get me now.”
He had run to his truck and raced across town, eager to reach her mansion before she changed her mind. She walked out unsteadily, dragging a suitcase with one hand and carryingSavannah in the other. She smelled of alcohol, but he hadn’t thought much of it. She must have needed some liquid courage to make a decision that big.
The next six months had been the happiest of his life. Marie moved into his house with Savannah. Pierre had been gloriously furious and humiliated. He first claimed that Michael kidnapped Marie and Savannah. When she denied it and filed for divorce, he switched his story and said Michael had drugged Marie and was controlling her. Marie responded by giving obviously undrugged solo interviews to local and national media. Michael had sat back and enjoyed the show.
Meanwhile, Michael and Marie’s love had deepened. They strolled his private forest, had long talks on his porch, and raced around Mobile Bay in his boat. Her poems from this time were happier than any of her other works. She gave him one that she never published:
I live in my lover’s love
It is a wide country, beautiful and secret
His laugh like sunlight dancing on water
His eyes the blue of skies where eagles roam
