Wild Orchids

by Jude Deveraux

  Having read all of Ford’s books, I figured I knew all about him, but he surprised me with the story about why his father had been sent to jail. Ford told me with his usual angst, with that poor-little-me face he always put on when he talked about his family, but I ignored it. I couldn’t help but see Ford’s father as a man who epitomized every virtue of a true hero.

  While Ford told the story, my mind whirled. I’m sure that Toodles—I hated the name but it fit him-—knew Ford’s mother didn’t love him, but, in spite of that, he’d married her. Then he’d done everything he could to support his wife and give his child a good start in life. That a criminal act was the basis of that start didn’t matter. Toodles had tried to do what was right. He’d risked everything for his wife, for his unborn child—and for his slimy brothers who’d wanted to use Toodles to save their own worthless hides.

  I didn’t agree with what Ford’s mother did when she turned her son over to the guilty uncles, but I certainly understood why she’d done it.

  In spite of knowing some of what was in that family, I was unprepared for Toodles’s breakdown. First of all, I couldn’t understand what was being said. Toodles said something I didn’t understand, then Ford said he wanted to learn how to play cat’s cradle, and the next second all hell broke loose. Toodles was crying—howling really—so loud that I had to shout over him. I think he was saying something important, but between the crying and his face being buried in Ford’s beer belly, I couldn’t make out his exact words.

  But I could see that whatever he was saying was making Ford cry, too. Under my breath, I said, “Get a mop, there’s two of them,” but Noble heard me and laughed. I tried to pull Toodles off Ford, but he hung on like a koala to a eucalyptus tree.

  Noble finally put both his arms around Toodles’s barrel chest and pulled him away. The scene had made everyone at the table weepy—except for Noble. He was the only one who seemed to think that what had just happened was “normal.” If that was normal, then Ford’s family was weirder than he’d made them out to be in his books. Was that possible?

  Finally, Noble suggested that Ford tell a story and I must say that the idea intrigued me. Could Ford make up stories? He seemed only able to write roman à clefs about his bizarre family.

  Taking his audience into consideration—namely, a nine-year-old and an adult child—Ford started telling about two little boys and the jams they got themselves into. From the way Noble was quietly laughing into his plate, I could see that Ford was keeping to his pattern and telling of the true misadventures of himself and his cousin.

  I listened with half an ear because I was thinking about something that had happened earlier. That afternoon Noble had climbed in a window of my studio and removed the portfolio containing my photos of Tessa—the pictures I was saving to show Russell. It amazed me that, after having trespassed, Noble brought the photos into the garden and showed them to everyone. As though he had the right to intrude on a person’s private property!

  I was seething at his invasion and let him know it. What I wanted to say was that I had a great deal of influence with Ford and if I said something bad, there was a strong possibility that Ford wouldn’t let Noble stay. But since Ford was right there (pouting in a hammock, but there) I didn’t say any of this for fear it might backfire.

  I did let Noble know of my extreme displeasure by giving him such a hard look I expected his eyebrows to burst into flame. However, I had to let up pretty quickly, because, after all, he was my employer’s cousin, so I pretended I was interested in his praise. I was quite reserved, though, about what he was saying so he’d know to never again invade my privacy. I listened to what he had to say for a minute or two, then I took the photos to Ford. I wanted to let Noble know that Ford was the master of the household. Besides, now that my pictures had been exposed, I wanted to know what Ford thought of them.

  Ford looked at the pictures slowly, one by one, but he didn’t say a word. Nothing. For somebody who could maneuver words as he could, his silence was hurtful. I was at the point where I wanted to grab my pictures away from him when he did the oddest thing.

  He kissed me.

  He leaned over in that hammock—and that he didn’t tip it over showed he’d spent a lot of time in one—and planted his lips on mine.

  I wanted to say, “Ooooh,” in that Valley Girl way of disgust, but, uh, well, it was, well, actually, the kiss to end all kisses. It was a real kiss. With feeling. Emotion.

  At first it was as though Ford was saying that he thought my photos were really, really great. But, then, something happened a few seconds into the kiss and I began to see little stars. Okay, maybe they weren’t little star-shaped stars, but they were tiny multicolored dots of light. It was like when your sleep-deadened leg begins to wake up and you feel hundreds of thousands of tiny points of pain. During my kiss with Ford, I felt those little dots—not of pain, nosirree bob, no pain at all—but they were dots of brilliant color. I saw them behind my closed eyelids as well as felt them.

  After a while, Ford broke away. He looked a little startled, but he didn’t seem to have felt anything like what I had, so I played it cool. However, I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off Ford and I took a tiny step toward him. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t slipped on something. Dazed, I looked down at the ground. Scattered on the grass were about a hundred or so little black rings of olives. Obviously, Ford had picked them off the miniature quiches Noble had made—enough to feed twenty-eight men, the number in his cell block, he’d told me. But I didn’t understand. The night of my second vision, Ford and I had picked up pizzas and he’d asked for triple black olives, saying that he loved them. Knowing that, I’d bought lots of them, and told Noble to put the olives on the quiches with a heavy hand. So why had Ford picked them off?

  I didn’t ask because Noble said he was hungry and of course that meant me. I, the literary assistant had to, yet again, go to the kitchen.

  After dinner, I got to continue being the high prestige assistant of a famous writer by making beds for everyone. Ford hadn’t bothered himself to make a decision about where everyone was to sleep and, knowing him, he hadn’t even thought about it, so it was left to me. Yet another crucial, executive decision I had to make. When I found out there weren’t enough sheets in the house to make up the beds and I had to go shopping at eight P.M., and when Toodles and Tessa wanted to go with me so I knew a one hour job was going to turn into three, I started planning how big my raise was going to be.

  I finally got us back to the house at ten-thirty, Toodles and Tessa loaded down with fourteen cartons of ice cream because they couldn’t bear to leave any flavor behind, and I trudged up the stairs to make beds.

  Noble and Ford had finally broken up from whatever they were doing in his office—playing with the train set?—and Noble helped me with the beds. I was feeling pretty overwhelmed by it all, but Noble made me laugh. He saw that I’d sort of taken my annoyance out on the credit card Ford had given me. And, well, maybe I’d had a little fun with Toodles and Tessa as we’d filled four shopping carts full of bed and bath accessories. As Noble carried everything upstairs, he told me that building contractors couldn’t pack as much in the back of a pickup as I had. It was silly of me, but the way he said it made me feel as though I’d been complimented—which I didn’t like. If I started thinking like one of the Newcombes, I was going to leave town immediately.

  He got the electric drill I’d bought (in a case, complete with bits) and put up curtain rods while I used the new iron (deluxe, most expensive one they had) to press the curtains before he hung them. I must say that when we finished, Toodles’s room looked great. I’d bought him bug-printed sheets, curtains, rugs, and bath accessories. Well, actually, he and Tessa had chosen them, and Ford had paid for them—was going to pay for them—but I’d okayed it all. The bug fabric was relieved by a blue and green plaid comforter, and the curtains were white sheers with little pockets. They came with six embroidered bugs to slip into the pockets, and
Tessa and Toodles had spent forty minutes discussing the other bugs they were going to embroider and put into the empty pockets.

  Tessa chose colors for her room. No patterns, no prints, but every sheet and curtain was a different color. In the store I’d been dubious about her choices, but after Noble and I got the curtains up and the bed made, we looked at the room in awe. The kid had talent. Somehow, all her shades of green, purple, blue and yellow worked together. In the cart, the packages had been jumbled together with Toodles’s bug prints, so Tessa’s colors had looked like a mess, like bits of Play-Doh all mixed up—at least that’s what I came up with so I could forgive myself for telling Tessa that her colors were all wrong. But when her linens were all together in one room, they were fabulous. And what I’d not realized was that she’d coordinated all the colors with the old, flowered wallpaper.

  “Wow,” I said, looking around. Under torture I couldn’t have remembered what the wallpaper in that particular room was, but Tessa seemed to have memorized all the colors and repeated them in the curtains and linens.

  “Wow,” I repeated.

  Noble was looking at the room in silence, the electric drill still in his hand, like a modern-day six-shooter. He cocked his head at me. “So who picked the stuff for my room?”

  “Tessa,” I said. He said, “Good,” then we laughed together. The truth was, at the store, I’d grown so bored with the lengthy discussions Toodles and Tessa were having about the linens that I’d gone to the picture frame department and pre-spent the raise I was going to get from Ford. By the time I returned, they’d filled up two big carts, so I didn’t see what they’d chosen for Noble’s room.

  Suddenly, we were both curious. He and I looked at each other, then we ran for the doorway at the same time. When he discourteously didn’t allow me, a female, to go first, we ended up pushing through the opening together, and going nowhere. Had I not been told he was Ford’s cousin, I would have known it then.

  I won the first round. In disgust, I stepped back and said, “After you.” Noble looked a little sheepish and when he stepped back, I ran through the doorway and down the stairs. But he wasn’t carrying the extra weight Ford did, so he ended up beating me down the stairs and into the bedroom next to Ford’s.

  We looked at each other warily, not sure whether to laugh or not about our little one-upmanship escapade, but then we saw that Toodles and Tessa had dumped Noble’s packages of linens on the bed before the two of them had disappeared, presumably to sample each of the fourteen ice cream flavors.

  They’d chosen brown and white for Noble’s room. The dust ruffle was white with a brown toile design of ovals of Roman coins, laurel-wreath-clad men’s profiles in the ovals. The comforter and sheets were dark brown, the curtains brown and white striped. In the bathroom he’d be sharing with Toodles, there were no bugs, just brown towels and soap dishes of crudely-carved, masculine-looking alabaster.

  When we finished Noble’s room, it was nearly midnight, and we were yawning, but we took time to stand back and admire our work.

  “I’ve never lived in a place like this,” Noble said softly, and I thought that if he got weepy on me like Ford and his dad, I’d kick him.

  “Now all it needs is a naked redhead between the sheets and the room would be perfect.”

  I was so relieved I wanted to laugh, but I said, “If she’s for you she’d be red above but gray below.”

  Noble gave me a look that made me blink a couple of times, then said he’d show me how old he was any time I liked.

  I was sure he was kidding. Maybe. Anyway, I went to my room rather quickly and locked the door. Ten minutes later I heard Ford lumbering down the stairs and I wondered what he’d been doing up there alone all evening. I’d told him that I hoped he’d write down that story he told at dinner. Based on the success of the Harry Potter books, I thought Ford might do well to branch out into children’s fiction. Or, in his case, quasi-fiction.

  The next morning at breakfast, there were a lot of us, and Noble made pancakes. Great stacks of pancakes. It was my guess that Noble had mixed up enough batter to feed twenty-eight men, but I didn’t ask.

  I’m not sure how it came up or who started it—although I think it was Tessa—but by the end of the meal, everyone was planning a party to be given on Saturday night.

  Truthfully, I was torn by the idea of a party. What if Russell called and asked me out for that night? I’d have to say no, then I’d be miserable. I imagined myself being in such a bad mood that I’d dump a full bowl of punch over Ford Newcombe’s head.

  I knew it would be his head I’d dump anything on because I was only halfway down the stairs that morning when Ford ran up them—yes, ran—to tell me that no Russell Dunne taught at the University of North Carolina.

  Of course I defended Russell. How could I do otherwise when confronted with Ford’s I-told-you-so attitude? No drug addict ever enjoyed a fix like Ford Newcombe enjoyed telling me that Russell Dunne had lied to me.

  I wanted to push Newcombe down the stairs, but, knowing him, he’d grab me as he fell and probably land on top of me. And with his ever-increasing girth, I’d be flat enough to be pinned onto Toodles’s vest.

  So I didn’t do anything physical. I just put on my haughtiest manner and told him that I knew all about everything, that Russell had explained it all to me. Which, of course, he hadn’t.

  So, at breakfast I was torn. Half of me didn’t want a party because I knew I’d have to attend it and then I couldn’t go out with Russell, while the other half desperately wanted a party so if Russell did ask me out I could say I was busy. I wanted him to know that he’d have to plan ahead to get a date with Jackie Maxwell.

  But I didn’t have much time to think about Russell because the Newcombes—and I was beginning to think of Tessa as one, too—were planning to put on a Party. Capital letter. No hors d’oeuvres and drinks, but a major Party.

  And you know what? They made me feel useless. Between Noble’s ability to cook for twenty-eight people, Toodles’s and Tessa’s ability to make decorations, Nate’s ability to set up, and Ford’s ability to pay for everything, there wasn’t much for me to do. Except to photograph it all, that is. I popped around with my camera in everyone’s face and snapped, then retired to my studio to develop. I got some good shots, but nothing like the ones I’d taken of Tessa. I took a couple of Toodles sitting up and sleeping with his eyes open, but when I developed them, he looked dead. The pictures were too creepy for my taste. I pinned them on the wall, but I didn’t really like them.

  I tried to make a guest list, but soon realized we didn’t know twenty-eight people in Cole Creek. “I could call some of the uncles to come up,” Noble said. I guess I must have looked horrified at that idea because when I glanced up, both Noble and Ford were laughing at me.

  When Allie came by that afternoon to pick up Tessa, I told her our problem. Allie said, “Serve food and the whole town will come.” I said I didn’t think that some people—I mentioned no names—liked us so they wouldn’t be there, but that made Allie laugh. “You want me to invite people?” she asked. “Just so the total is twenty-eight,” I answered, but didn’t explain.

  Allie left without Tessa. This time, Tessa and Toodles didn’t have to repeat their tragedy act, as Allie was glad for some respite from the constancy of motherhood.

  By the afternoon of the party, I still hadn’t heard from Russell and I was beginning to be glad. In fact, I’d almost talked myself out of being attracted to him. I remembered that he was handsome, but so what? Obviously, he wasn’t a good person or he would have called as he said he would. And, besides, he’d lied to me about UNC. He wasn’t a man I wanted anything to do with.

  And, too, there was Ford’s kiss. I found myself glancing at him now and then and wondering about things. He’d never told me what happened the night he went to Dessie’s house—and I certainly wasn’t going to ask—but, as far as I knew, he hadn’t seen her or even talked to her since.

  As Saturday night grew cl
oser, I was looking forward to it—and the reason for my excitement was that Dessie was going to be there. I was dying for Noble and Dessie to meet because I knew in my heart that those two were going to be a love match. And if Noble took Dessie away, then Ford and I…

  I told myself not to think. Besides, just hours before the party I was sent away in Ford’s pickup to get ice and more of everything that might possibly be needed, so that occupied my mind.

  While I was out, I bought thirty-one rolls of film. Unfortunately, Ford saw the bag and gave a low whistle. “What in the world are you planning to photograph?” he asked. I grabbed the bag away from him and didn’t answer. But blast it! My face turned red.

  And of course Ford saw it. He was the snoopingest person in the entire world. I busied myself around the kitchen while Ford stood there and stared at me, and I could see the little wheels in his head working. Would smoke come out of his ears?

  Finally, he gave a smug little smile and said, “The mayor and my dad.”

  I could have smacked him with a skillet. I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, but since he was right on, my dratted face turned purple. Ripe eggplant purple.

  Laughing, Ford tossed a handful of peanuts in his mouth, and as he was leaving the room, he said, “Look out Diane Arbus.”

  Somehow, my face got redder. Diane Arbus had photographed circus people. She loved the weird and strange.

  When I heard people’s voices outside, I left the kitchen (it now seemed to be Noble’s territory anyway—which proved that God answered prayers) and went outside. At about seven-fifteen the garden gate opened and in walked Miss Essie Lee and Dessie. It was amazing that the human body could take such disparate forms. Dessie was all lush woman, while Miss Essie Lee was as thin as a three-day-old stalk of wheat, and about as juicy.

  I couldn’t help staring at the emaciated woman and remembering what Russell had told me. Had this woman helped pile rocks on someone? Had Miss Essie Lee really helped commit a murder?