SPOV
I attempted to interact with Eric as little as possible the next few days. If he spoke to me, I responded, but that was it. Was I being childish? Probably, but the idea of him with Dawn…
"Sookie," Pam called Thursday evening as I was leaving. Why do people always ask for things when I am leaving?
"Yes?" I asked, stepping into her office.
"Why must you continue to punish Eric for Dawn's little stunt? You are just doing what she hoped you would." The truth isn't always easy to hear.
I took a deep breath and let it out. "Sunday Eric asked to stay over and I told him I wasn't ready. Then Monday evening…."
"What did he say to you when you told him you weren't ready?"
"That he could be patient."
"No coaxing or complaining?" Pam asked.
"No."
"Does that sound like the sort of man who would flaunt another woman in your face? Have you ever known Eric to flaunt his conquests?"
"No," I answered to both.
"You would be happier if you cut him a little slack," Pam advised. "Dawn preyed on your biggest fear. She knew what she was doing."
I nodded. "Good night, Pam," I said and left. In my mind I knew she was right, but I still felt betrayed.
"Have fun in New Orleans!" she called. I groaned.
We had made plans for Eric to pick me up at my apartment Friday afternoon. Five hours in a car with him. Oh boy! I knew I would need to clear the air between us.
"I believe you about Dawn," I said as we drove down my street. "I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you that – I have some trust issues."
Eric reached for my hand and squeezed it. "We'll have to learn to trust each other," he said simply. We talked about the bar, music, movies… "I should tell you about Sophie Anne," Eric said about an hour into our drive. "She took a year off after college graduation to tour Europe and somehow landed in Sweden, on my father's doorstep, in the middle of a snow storm. He was kind and offered her a place to stay."
"Oh yeah. How kind of him to offer a pretty, young girl a roof to sleep under."
"My father was a confirmed bachelor by then, nearly forty. He wouldn't have been expecting anything in return for his hospitality," Eric responded, sounding defensive.
"Um hmm. I've met his son. He was going on forty – ick!"
"He was still strong and handsome," Eric said, irritation in his voice. I guess Eric was expecting to remain strong and handsome when he turned forty.
"I don't care how good he looked – he was nearly twenty years older than Sophie."
"I'm not sure of the details, but my dad was a soft spoken, shy, gentle man. He was never a ladies' man by any stretch of the imagination. I've always assumed that Sophie Anne seduced him."
"Oh."
"Whatever happened between them, she stayed long enough to realize she was pregnant. Sophie was all for ending the pregnancy and moving on with her life. My father begged her to keep the baby and stay with him until she gave birth. He was overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a father – he had thought his chance to have son or daughter was long past. So Sophie stayed with my father and I was born. She left when I was two months old."
"She just left you?" How could a mother leave her child behind?
"My dad told me that when she felt she could leave me alone with him, she went to visit her family in the U.S. and then just decided to stay. Sophie Anne told me she stayed until she lost her baby weight, then headed back to her parents' house."
"I don't know what to say to that."
"My dad used to say she was young and wild."
"Was he bitter?"
"My dad? Not at all. I think after nine months he had had enough of Sophie Anne and her selfish ways. He had gotten a son – he was very grateful to her. My father would occasionally send her a letter and pictures of me. She told her family the little boy in the pictures belonged to people she had stayed with in Sweden."
"She didn't tell anyone that she had a son?"
"Not for years." Unbelievable. And how did she finally broach the subject? ' Mom and Dad, dinner tonight was lovely and by the way I have an eight year old son that I gave birth to during my tour of Europe.' I just couldn't wrap my head around it.
"Did you miss her?" I asked.
"I had a happy childhood. My father was gentle and patient. He taught me to swim and fish and hunt. I had lots of aunts and uncles and cousins who lived nearby. I was loved and cared for." I noticed Eric kind of glossed over my question, but I didn't call him on it.
"Did your father tell you about her?"
"He would say that I got his good looks and my mom's personality," Eric grinned. "He said she made him laugh. My dad was not a funny man by nature. He wasn't mean, just quiet and serious. He often told me he laughed more since I was born than the first 40 years of his life put together. " Eric's voice cracked a bit and his eyes were damp.
"What happened to him?" I asked.
"My dad started smoking when he was a teenager – he was up to two packs a day when I was a kid. One winter when I was in high school he had a terrible cough (much worse than his usual smoker's cough) that just wouldn't go away. By the time he went to the doctor, the cancer was really bad. He only lived a few months."
"Oh, Eric. I am so sorry."
We both shed a few tears and I told him about my parents dying when I was seven and Gran's death from cancer. Eric's aunt had done the lion's share of caring for his dying father, but we could relate – the shock of watching the strongest person we knew waste away, the pain and morphine taking away your loved one before their body completely succumbed, the relief when the dying was finally over. I'd never talked so much about losing my Gran with anyone before, not even Tara. At one point Eric actually pulled the car over so we could both have a good cry. He pulled me onto his lap (which was something in a Corvette) and we cried on each others shoulders.
"Don't mention this to anyone," Eric said when we had run out of tears.
"What? My eyes were so full of tears, I wouldn't have noticed if yours were a little damp. Thanks for pulling over so I could cry on your shoulder," I responded with a slow smile. Eric kissed me gently on the lips. Then he came back for more. His tongue boldly stroked mine and I eagerly joined in. While trying to move into a more comfortable position, my elbow found the car horn. We both jumped, then laughed.
"We should probably get going," Eric said, regret in his voice. Slowly I climbed off of his lap and returned to my seat. We continued down I-49 towards New Orleans.
"Did Sophie Anne try to get to know you once your dad died?" I asked.
"No. Sophie does things when it is convenient to her. She wrote me a long letter when I turned twelve. Sophie Anne was with husband number three and had a miscarriage. She apologized for leaving and said she would like to get to know me. We started writing letters to each other. She invited me to visit her several times, but I never took her up on it. Then, by the time graduation rolled around, I needed to get away. Moving to the U.S. for college seemed like the perfect opportunity."
"Why did you need to get away?" I asked.
"If I tell you that story I'll have to pull over for you to cry again and we'll never make it to New Orleans," Eric answered with a sad smile. I guessed that was a story for another day. I could be patient.
"Was Sophie Anne what you expected?"
"Nothing was what I expected. My dad had a descent job and we never wanted for anything, but he was frugal and we lived a simple life. Our house and everything in it was plain and serviceable. He drove the same car for twelve years. My life in Sweden in no way prepared me for life with Sophie. When her driver picked me up at the airport in a limo, I didn't know quite what to think."
"Sophie Anne hadn't seen you since you were a baby and she sent her driver to the airport?" I wondered if her maternal instinct was broken.
"Her driver, Rasul, took me to my apartment and told me he would be back in an hour to take me to dinner. He looked at my clothes and asked if I would like help selecting something to wear."
"That was nice of him. Did you have proper dinner attire in your suitcase?" Somehow, I doubted it.
"No, but I found an entire closet full of clothes waiting for me."
"Wow."
"Did you have dinner at her house?" I asked.
"Yes, wait until you see the castle."
"Castle? Your mom lives in a castle?" What sort of craziness had I gotten myself into?
We stopped at a Cracker Barrel in Baton Rouge for dinner. While we ate, we took turns pretending to be tour guides in Sophie Anne's castle.
"Down these stairs you will see the dungeon – where the carpet is just Berber and the sheets on the double beds are only 100 thread count."
"In the small dining room, which seats 50, you will notice the fireplace is only large enough to roast one small pig."
We made up all sorts of silly things using terrible Scottish, British, Irish, and German accents. Eric and I garnered a few strange looks from the people around us, but we really enjoyed ourselves.
