Magnolia Nights

by Ashley Farley

  Mother rose out of her chair to greet me. “Come in, darling. Join us for tea,” she said in a sugary sweet voice. She’s never called me darling in my life.

  She’s mentioned James to me several times in recent weeks. She’s got it in her deranged mind that we would make the perfect couple. I barely know the man. And he is a man—in his early thirties if my memory serves me correctly. He’s awkward in both appearance and behavior. He lives at home with his parents on Gibbes Street and spends his days playing chess with himself on their piazza. Mother speaks often of his high IQ, as if that’s any excuse for him not to have a proper job.

  Mother says that James doesn’t need to work. “Between your money and his, your offspring for the next four generations won’t have to lift a finger.”

  Phooey on her. Everyone should work regardless of the size of their trust fund. I refuse to be defined by another human being. I have higher aspirations for myself than being Mrs. James Martin Middleton V.

  For the past month, after graduating from the all-women’s college Mother had insisted I attend, I’ve been making the rounds of countless teas and luncheons hosted by Mother’s friends and their daughters, many of whom were my peers at Ashley Hall from kindergarten all the way through high school. I detest these functions. I have nothing in common with these women, my supposed friends, who seem content to live the same life they’ve always lived. They sound like broken records, every one of them. They talk about marrying wealthy men, having children, playing tennis, and attending more of the same boring old parties. No thank you. That is not the life for me. I can’t imagine sitting around doing nothing all day.

  I have my future all planned out. Come hell or high water, I will go to New York and become a fashion model. One day I’ll be featured in Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Last spring while I was still at school, I spent three months’ allowance on a professional photo shoot. I sent the headshots to a handful of modeling agencies in Manhattan, and two of them wrote back requesting interviews. I’m still working up the nerve to respond. Every day I remind myself that I’m not getting any younger. A few more years and I’ll be too old for modeling.

  What’s holding me back then? What am I so afraid of? My mother, of course. Eleanor Pringle would never approve of her only daughter flaunting her body in front of the camera in such a tawdry way. When she finishes beating me silly with my father’s jogging stick, she will cut the purse strings with a butcher knife, leaving me without a dime. As much as I loathe my privileged lifestyle, I have no clue how to function in a world without money. Where will I live if I run away to New York? Who will I live with? What will become of me if I fail?

  I sat at the table across from the Middletons and behaved like the young woman of proper breeding that I am. I planted a smile on my face, but I kept my mouth shut. I had nothing to contribute to the conversation. I felt James’s eyes on me, but I didn’t dare look at him. I stared, instead, at the portrait of my father above the sideboard. Edwin Pringle would’ve supported my decision to go to New York, God rest his soul. His was the only voice of reason I’ve ever known. I was only seven when he passed away from cancer, a year after his mother died of heart failure. I loved my Grandma Amelia. She was a sweet old lady who was no match for her daughter-in-law. Mother never showed any kindness to my father or his mother, and the minute they were in the ground at Magnolia Cemetery, she turned into a tyrant.

  I plotted my escape while my mother gossiped with the Middletons about their mutual friends. I know the train schedule by heart, and I’ve put aside enough money from my allowance to live for a month without a job in New York. I’m a college graduate and grown woman of twenty-two. I feel ridiculous sneaking out of town under the cover of darkness to get away from my mother. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes. She can’t force me to marry a man I don’t love.

  As they were leaving, James pulled me aside and asked if I would attend the Fourth of July party with him at the club on Tuesday. To avoid an argument with Mother, I told him yes, but I will be long gone by then.

  Mother lectured me long and hard over dinner about the advantages of marrying into a wealthy family. I raked my fork through my mashed potatoes and bided my time.

  I excused myself from the table and went upstairs to pack my bags. I emptied the jar of cash I keep hidden beneath a loose board beside my bed into my purse. After Mother retired for the night, I called a taxi to take me to the station to catch the overnight train to New York.

  I arrived at Penn Station the following afternoon around three. Remember when I went to New York with my senior class in high school? We toured the city in a bus, visiting all the local tourist attractions, and the chaperones refused us any free time to explore on our own. But this time is different. I’m all on my own with no one to guide me. When I exited Penn Station, I was overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of the busy city streets. Unsure of what subway line to take or how to hail a cab, I joined the throng of New Yorkers hurrying along the sidewalk to their destinations. I wandered the streets until I came upon a nondescript hotel advertising vacancy. Ignoring the creepy stares of the disreputable-looking men loitering in the lobby, I booked a room for three nights and took the elevator to the fifth floor. My room has a full-size bed with a floral-print polyester bedspread, orange wall-to-wall shag carpet with stains from liquids I can’t bring myself to think about, and one window with a view of the building next door. I don’t mind the squalid interior so much. The room represents freedom for me.

  I went to the diner across the street for dinner. I ordered the blue plate special—fried chicken and biscuits smothered in butter—but the butterflies fluttering around in my belly prevented me from taking more than a few bites. I woke early enough to shampoo and blow-dry my thick hair. I chose a simple black sleeveless dress and matching patent pumps from the meager wardrobe I brought with me. I exited the revolving doors in the lobby of the hotel, and following the lead of the gentleman standing next to me, I raised my hand in the air to summon a taxi. The driver took me to the address I provided: an impressive stone office building on Fifth Avenue.

  At the modeling agency on the third floor, I gave the receptionist the fake name I’d submitted with my photographs last spring. I’m now known to the world as Nettie Pearson. I want to start a new life with no strings attached to my mother or to Charleston. Creating a new identity for myself seems like a good way to go about doing that.

  The matronly receptionist stared down her nose at me and asked if I had an appointment.

  “Not exactly, but I have this.” I slid an envelope across the desk to the woman and explained that I had submitted my photos to their agency and received a request for an interview in response. “I hadn’t planned to be in New York today, but since I’m here, I thought I’d stop by on the off chance Mrs. Porter could see me.”

  The woman skimmed the letter, returned it to the envelope, and handed it back to me. She swept her hand in the direction of the adjoining waiting room and told me to have a seat.

  The room was already packed with stunning beauties in all shapes, sizes, and genders. I experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of my gut as I made my way to the one available chair in the far corner of the room. A sheltered Southern girl like myself doesn’t stand a chance against these sophisticated beings. The teenage girl to my right with vacant eyes and hollowed-out cheeks ignored me, but the young woman on my left, who appeared to be about my age, started jabbering away the minute I sat down.

  “I don’t know why I waste my time coming to these interviews,” she said. “Even if I lost twenty pounds, they’d never pick me over someone like you. You’re gorgeous. Simply gorgeous. I would kill to have hair this strawberry-blonde color.” She fingered a lock of my hair—a gesture I would normally find offensive from a total stranger. But this girl’s pert nose, bouncing white curls, and twinkling blue eyes made me feel at ease. She introduced herself as Louisa Whitehead.

  I started to give her my name but caught myself. “I’m Nettie Pearson.�
�� The name sounded foreign and mysterious on my tongue, like I’m a Cold War spy.

  “Say . . .” Louisa touched the tip of her finger to the dimple in her chin as she studied me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You must be new in town. Are you by any chance in need of a place to live? Because I’m looking for a roommate. My last roommate gave up on her modeling career and moved back home to Ohio. I can afford the rent, even if I never land a modeling gig. I have a full-time job at an advertising agency. I live with two other girls in a two-bedroom apartment in the Village. You would share the other twin bed in my room. You’d have the room to yourself most nights. I have a boyfriend. At least for the moment. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be together. He’s nice enough, but he’s not exactly the marrying type. Not that I want to get married anytime soon. I’d rather be single than waste my time on a relationship with no future.”

  Louisa talked so much I was worn out from listening to her. I can barely remember what she said. But I liked her just the same. I’ve never met anyone quite like Louisa, so open and energetic. I asked her why she was interviewing at a modeling agency when she already has a career.

  “It’s not a career per se. I’m a secretary. I’m only twenty-three. I’m not ready to give up on my dreams quite yet.” Louisa dug her fingers into my arm. “I know what you’re thinking—what’s she doing playing hooky from her paying job to come here? Don’t worry. I don’t miss work very often. I rarely get called back for interviews.” She paused to take a breath. “So, are you interested? In looking at the apartment, I mean.” She rummaged in her bag for a scrap of paper and jotted down her address. “Why don’t you stop by around six tonight? It won’t hurt to take a look.”

  I took the number from her and folded it into my bag. What did I have to lose? I have nowhere else to live.

  For the next few minutes, Louisa spoke about the apartment and all the benefits of living in Greenwich Village. I was so mesmerized by her talk of life in the Big Apple, I failed to respond when the receptionist summoned Nettie Pearson.

  Louisa elbowed me in the side. “She’s calling your name ahead of everyone else. That’s a good sign!”

  With a quick glance around the room, I noticed all eyes were on me. “I don’t understand. I was the last to arrive.”

  “But you’re the prettiest one in the room. That’s how these things work.” She nudged me out of my seat. “Go. Good luck, and I’ll see you tonight at six.”

  I followed the receptionist down a long narrow hall into a large office with a bank of windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. A rectangular table was positioned in front of the windows, behind which sat a young man wearing a black beret and an imposing figure I recognized right away as Olga Porter. She came from behind the table to greet me. Dressed in Chanel with her black hair piled atop her head, she was every bit as elegant in person as she was in the photographs of her featured regularly in magazines and on the news.

  She circled me, scrutinizing me from head to toe. “You’re lovely, dear. Very wholesome. Have you done any modeling?”

  “No ma’am,” I answered.

  Olga raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Beauty pageants?”

  I shook my head.

  Olga brushed an invisible speck of lint off her Chanel suit as if brushing away a fly. “So you’re just another Cheryl Tiegs wannabe from Minnesota?”

  Despite the churning in my stomach, I looked Olga in the eye and held her gaze. “I’m not from the Midwest. I’m from the South.”

  “That makes a difference then. Did you hear that, Abbott?” Olga turned to the young man sitting behind the desk. “We have ourselves another Scarlett O’Hara wannabe.” Her attempt at a Southern accent failed.

  Abbott got out of his chair and approached me. Lifting my chin, he rotated my head one way and then another. “She has good bones. Why don’t we see what the camera thinks?”

  Olga peered at me over Abbott’s shoulder. “I don’t see it. But you’re the genius. Go. Take your photographs.” She shooed us off toward a side door. “But don’t waste too much time on her. We have a waiting room full of wannabe somebodies today.”

  Abbott led me into his studio in the adjoining room. Closing the door behind us, he pointed to a bench in the corner. “You can put your things over there. You might feel more comfortable if you take off your shoes.”

  I dropped my bag on the bench, slipped off my shoes, and went to stand in front of his camera. I felt awkward at first, but Abbott’s warm chocolate eyes, gentle smile, and soft voice instructing me on how to position my body and where to direct my eyes set me at ease. He’s attractive despite his hawkish nose, which I think adds character to his otherwise ordinary face.

  When he finished shooting, he asked me if I had time to wait for his assistant to develop the proof sheets. I smiled at him and told him, “Of course!” I was willing to wait all day for a chance at a job.

  Louisa had already left when I returned to our corner of the waiting room. I thumbed through magazines while I monitored the comings and goings of the wannabe somebodies in the room. One by one, they were summoned for their audience with Olga, and one by one they exited her office. Most wore dejected faces, but one lucky lovely was given a clipboard with forms to fill out. I hadn’t considered the application, the challenges ahead of living under an assumed name. If I’m fortunate enough to be offered the job, I’ll speak confidentially to someone in the personnel department, explaining my need to protect my family’s privacy. Fabricating a little white lie will add legitimacy to my claim. I’ll tell them my mother is mentally ill. That should do the trick. A talent agency will certainly want to keep that skeleton in the closet.

  My stomach rumbled for a stretch around lunchtime, but the hunger pangs eventually subsided. The last interviewee left around four, and I was beginning to think Abbott had forgotten about me when he finally emerged from the back.

  “We’re ready for you now.” He took me by the hand and helped me out of my chair. “Fasten your seat belt, Miss Pearson. I’m about to make you a superstar.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ellie

  Ellie lay her mother’s open journal facedown on her stomach. Her eyes were tired from deciphering Ashton’s messy handwriting. Staring up at the paint peeling off the ceiling, she tried to process the new information she’d learned about her mother. Growing up, she’d constantly peppered her father with questions about her mother. He usually responded with a brusque “What’s in the past is best left in the past.” As for her last name being different from his. . . She didn’t want to share the hall bathroom with her stepmother and two bratty half-brothers, let alone her last name.

  As a nature photographer, her father was gone for weeks, sometimes months, at a time, traveling into the wild in remote parts of the world. His income afforded them a comfortable living without any extras. In the absence of a housekeeper or someone to help in the yard, her stepmother gave Ellie more than her share of the chores. On top of doing the laundry, cleaning the bathrooms, and mowing the grass, she babysat for her little brothers night after night while her stepmother went down the street to drink wine with her neighbor. Jenny barked orders at her, and she screamed at her when she left her wet towel on the floor of the bathroom or when she forgot to take out the trash, but she never had a conversation with Ellie. She never took her shopping, attended school events, or expressed an interest in any of her friends. The teenage years were the hardest, when Ellie’s hormones raged inside her. She longed for a maternal figure that she could share her confusing emotions with. She’d yearned for a mother who understood her and truly cared about her. Instead, she was left with Jenny, who never taught her to use a tampon or talked to her about where babies came from. Never offered advice about boys or college or her future.

  Late one night shortly after her sixteenth birthday, Ellie and her father were spooning cookie dough ice cream out of the carton at the kitchen table when she broached the subject of her mother for the umpteenth time. “Did my
mother like to eat ice cream late at night like we do?”

  Her father smiled into the carton. “Not ice cream, no. Ashton didn’t have much of a sweet tooth. She liked to eat leftover Chinese food out of the carton at midnight.”

  She’d never heard him refer to her mother by name before, and the soft expression on his face gave her hope that he’d once loved Ashton. Abbott took Ellie to see a child psychiatrist once a week when she first came to live with him. But after a couple of years, when money grew tight and the therapy didn’t appear to be working, they stopped going. And he stopped talking about her past altogether. In his mind, she sensed, not talking about it would make it go away.

  Ellie sought therapy again during her freshman year in college when the demons that haunted her drove her to experiment with drugs. The therapist helped her to stop abusing drugs and control her alcohol usage, and she’d been seeing Patsy once a week ever since.

  When Bennett Calhoun contacted her with news of her grandmother’s death, Ellie phoned her father to tell him about her inheritance. He’d long since divorced Jenny and was working for National Geographic in Washington, DC.

  “You’re a grown woman, Ellie. I can’t tell you what to do. But you’re liable to wake up a few sleeping dogs by going down to Charleston. And I think it’s best to let them lie.”

  “I’m going, Dad, and you can’t stop me. All my life, you’ve refused to talk to me about my family. Are you hiding something from me? Because if there’s anything you want me to know, now would be a good time to tell me before I find out on my own.”

  Her father had sighed heavily into the phone. “I haven’t been hiding anything from you, sweetheart. I’ve been protecting you. You were a terrified little girl when you came to live with me. I held you at night when you cried out in your sleep. I saw with my own eyes how difficult it was for you to adjust to your new environment. I sensed that something very bad happened to you in Charleston. Whatever that thing is buried so deep inside of you, your therapist couldn’t reach it after years of trying. Bottom line, Ellie, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”