Beads of Doubt

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  “It’s true,” Houston said.

  “I thought Rebecca just finished chemo? How can you saddle her with an eight-thousand-square-foot house? You don’t have any idea how much work that is.”

  “Staff, Kitzi,” he said as if I weren’t bright.

  “This isn’t the Victorian era and you aren’t king. Who’s going to manage the staff?”

  “I am, of course.”

  I snorted, which wasn’t ladylike, but was quite appropriate. “Oh, right. That’s a full-time job, too, and you can’t do that and still run a business full-time. Believe me, I know because I’ve tried to do both.” My voice was getting louder, but I didn’t care. This man made no sense. “I had to let my trainers go and now it’s just me, coaching and training people. And the Manse isn’t just time consuming, it’s expensive. You don’t have that kind of money, Houston Webber, and I can assure you that I am not going to bail you out when you get into trouble.” Which to my shame I’d done twice before. “And one more thing: all you had to do was call me! You didn’t need some lawyer to phone me or start sending letters.”

  The door swung open. “Excuse me!” A man stepped in and closed the door. He was a Houston clone, except ten years younger and a few inches shorter. He was dressed like Houston in dark slacks with a light blue, French-cuffed shirt, and his dark hair, sleekly cut like Houston’s, was even beginning to gray.

  “Andrew,” Houston said, welcoming him with relief. “Is the meeting over?”

  “No.” Andrew jerked his head indicating the room next door. “Our new clients were a little concerned about all the noise.” Then he looked at me. The irritation disappeared as he suddenly smiled. “Ms. Camden. How are you? I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid she was getting a little excited,” Houston said.

  Andrew held out his hand to me. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Andrew Lynch,” he said with a smile.

  “Of course I do, Andrew,” I said, trying not to sound annoyed. False modesty was one of Houston’s ploys, as well. “This is my friend, Beth Fairfield. ” I shook his hand, then returned my attention to Houston. “So, you’re sticking to this?”

  “I think we ought to talk about this later,” Houston said. He smiled, making his eyes warm and sweet. That look hadn’t charmed me since I was seven and he’d used it to con me out of all my birthday money.

  I was about to ask one more question when Andrew sat down on the front of the desk and leaned toward me, earnestly. Very Houston-like. “It’s serendipitous that I walked in here and found you. We were talking about you just the other day.”

  “Oh, really? You and Houston?”

  “Yes. And I couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t told you about all the wonderful investment opportunities that we’ve uncovered. I’m meeting with a few of our clients in the conference room right now and I’d love to have both you ladies join us.”

  Beth leaned forward. “Why, Andrew, that’s very generous of you. So if we attended the meeting, something wonderful would happen?” She made it sound like group sex would be taking place. Or more to her liking, Andrew would be serving hot fudge sundaes.

  He laughed. “We are returning between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and eighty percent on our client’s money. Now that’s the way to build a retirement—”

  “Andrew,” Houston cut in. “I don’t think now is the time.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “But I do have one simple question.”

  “Of course,” Andrew said.

  “Thank you, Andrew, but this one is for Houston. Who in the family has changed their vote?” Because that’s what had to have happened. Someone was going to vote with Houston.

  “I can’t really discuss that before the corporation meeting.”

  I stood up. “Houston. Gird your loins, honey, because we’re about to have one hell of a fight.”

  Beth smiled as she said good-bye to everyone, and we walked toward the front.

  “Very restrained,” she said to me as we neared the front desk.

  “Why, thank you.” I nodded toward Lauren to indicate we were leaving, then said to Beth, “You know, I’d love to pinch his head off and throw him in the Dumpster. Or maybe I’ll just shoot the sumbitch.”

  Lauren heard and raised an eyebrow. Beth said to her, “Don’t worry, I’ll take away her guns. Or maybe just her bullets.”

  As I walked down the steps, crunching acorns from the tree overhead, I realized I had done it again—shot from the mouth, forewarning Houston. I’d have felt bad, except I knew it didn’t much matter—he’d known all along he was going to get a fight.

  “So, where are we going now?” Beth asked.

  “To get a couple of attorneys.”

  “Ah,” she said with a nod, unlocking the Cruiser. “I thought you already had one.”

  “He’s not the right kind.”

  We both climbed inside the car. “What kind do you need?

  “The kind that are bigger and meaner than Houston’s.”

  Four

  “O blong tables go in the tent, the round ones in the house,” I said, pointing. “Someone inside will point you to the conservatory.”

  A massive truck from the rental company was unloading and I was directing traffic. There were several people from the caterers in the kitchen, and volunteers from OCO and the Bead Society were swirling around everywhere in a happy, hurried state. Some were marking booth spaces in the tent. Several others were putting up decorations in the conservatory, and others were working on placement of the signage. It was like watching children prepare for Christmas, there was that much anticipation. And all I could think of was that damn Houston. “White chairs in the house,” I said to a young female volunteer who had pitched in to unload the truck. “The metal chairs go in the tent. Two per table.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you see Mr. Harrington?” my mother asked, joining me near the driveway. “What was it about?”

  “I think it was a misunderstanding,” I said, keeping my focus on the items coming out of the truck. “Some confusion about when we had to have a meeting about the house.”

  “The house?” Her tone was alarmed, and when I looked at her I saw that her delicately penciled eyebrows showed worry. “The Manse?”

  “No, no, of course not. I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” I said, keeping my face turned away from her. She can often catch me when I’m prevaricating. “Houston’s house. He wanted to talk about Houston’s house.”

  “Oh, Kitzi, you’re not harassing poor Houston for the money you loaned him, are you? What with Rebecca sick and all, I’m sure their medical expenses are very high. Besides, it was only a few thousand dollars.”

  It was seven thousand dollars, which I don’t consider a few, and he has never even offered to pay back a pittance, but I suppose that’s my fault. I should have made him sign a legal document saying if I wasn’t paid back within two years he would jump off the planet. My mistake.

  “I’m not harassing him,” I said. “I’ve never asked him for a thing. He has years before he has to give me any money.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I’ve always felt that you have such an advantage over him. And your brother. Your grandfather really taught you about money. The boys didn’t get that tutoring, which is probably why they’ve drained their trusts.”

  Or it could be that they’re never been profitably employed, they’ve lived high, and they’ve pissed away every dime. They also never listened when our grandfather tried to advise them. “The coffeepots go in the house,” I said to a young man who was carrying two of the large silver ones.

  “I didn’t actually come to talk to you about the lawyer,” my mother said. “It seems that we have a problem. The Dumpster is still in the parking lot. I thought you had taken care of that?”

  “Rats. I thought so, too. Let me go talk with Bruce—”

  “I’ll take over your job here.” My mother was in her element, making sure everything ran smoo
thly. Only I knew that by Monday she would be exhausted and pay for all the time she spent working.

  “I won’t be long.” I went marching off toward the back of the property, muttering to myself. It was a nonprofit kind of day. The visit to Houston had been of no value whatsoever, since he was not willing to back down. Then I’d gone to my lawyer, who has about as much killer instinct as a morning glory. He’d given me a copy of the letter from Harrington and the original incorporation papers on the Manse, suggesting that I might like to look them over. Which is kind of like “looking over” The Iliad in the original Greek, only less fun.

  We’d eaten lunch in the car, and Beth had made me look bad by nibbling on a junior-size burger. She had eaten two of my French fries. That forced me to throw the rest of them away, although I did finish off my double cheeseburger.

  Since I had eaten a lot more than Beth had, she had spent the rest of our lunchtime creating a beaded necklace of cranberry-colored freshwater pearls interspersed with Swarovski crystals. It was absolutely stunning in its simplicity, so typical of Beth, who can bead anywhere, and often does. She claims it’s more effective than Valium. To add insult to injury she gave me the necklace, so I couldn’t even be annoyed with her.

  I still had no idea who had changed their vote, which would take the Manse away from us, and I still didn’t have a team of lawyers who would eat Houston’s lawyers. My attorney went so far as to say there was nothing legal that could be done, but I was betting he was wrong. If I could just find a legal rattlesnake . . .

  I cut through the hedges behind the private drive, then went across the parking area. Because the Manse is on a private street, there just isn’t sufficient parking for a large to-do. There never had been, which is why my grandfather came up with the idea of a private parking lot. It works fine some of the time, and when the event is really large, like the Bead Tea, we borrow the church lot from two blocks down the street and run shuttles from North Austin.

  It didn’t help that there was an industrial Dumpster half blocking the entry.

  The house behind us was being remodeled from top to bottom, and since the house was almost as big as their lot, I’d told the contractor he could put the Dumpster on our property. I’d made him promise to get it moved by yesterday. Apparently that hadn’t happened, and there was construction material overflowing everywhere.

  I went around it and along their driveway. Two men were taking down a scaffold. “Can you tell me where Bruce is?” I asked.

  “Que?”

  “Donde esta Señor Bruce?” Bruce Burnett is the owner of Accurate Construction, and the general contractor on the house.

  The man answered me, but I realized one more time that I have a major flaw with my ability to speak Spanish—I can ask for something, but I have no idea what people are saying when they answer me. I did catch a few words, one being camioneta, which means “pickup.”

  “Gracias,” I said, about to turn away when a large white pickup with Accurate Construction printed on the side drove up. For once timing was on my side.

  The truck stopped and a big man with light brown hair and a beard came over to me. “Hey, Miss Kitzi, what are you up to?”

  “Bruce, we have a problem.”

  “Not me, maybe you do.” He stroked his beard.

  “You promised that you would move the Dumpster—”

  “That’s not a problem. I promised you I would have it out of here by next Thursday, and I will.”

  “Next Thursday! It’s not next Thursday, it’s today—”

  He started laughing. “I know.”

  “You rat. You almost gave me a heart attack. That was mean.”

  “Yeah, but it was fun, too.” His teeth showed through his beard as he grinned. “Don’t worry, the guy is on his way here now. Should be gone in half an hour.”

  “That’s good, but I still owe you one.”

  “There is nothing anyone can do to me that would be any worse than the nightmares I’ve already been dealing with on this house. Oh, and by the way, I got rid of most of the bat colony, so you’ll have more mosquitoes this summer.”

  “You know,” I said, looking him square in the eye, “this conversation has gone from bat to worse. I’m out of here.”

  “Thanks for stopping by.”

  I was shaking my head as I walked past the offending Dumpster and back to the Manse. If Houston really did succeed in taking the house away from me, maybe I’d just have Bruce build a kind of super duplex for my mother and me. With separate entrances, but a connecting door.

  “Kitzi,” my mother said as I made it to the driveway. She was checking something off her clipboard. “I’m so glad you’re back. Would you find the president of OCO, Judy, and ask her to call the rental company? It appears they shorted us a few chairs. Then someone from catering said the ice machine was making a funny sound. Would you look at it?” The ice machine has been around since my dad’s administration and it’s always making odd sounds. Usually I just unplug it, wait a minute, and plug it back in again. Kind of like rebooting a computer.

  “Be happy to,” I said.

  When I had accomplished those tasks and half a dozen more, including making several phone calls looking for a badass lawyer, hours had passed and the sun was beginning to lower. My mother was still walking around with her clipboard.

  “Mom, you need to go and rest up before tonight,” I said. “No need to tire yourself out.” She already looked pale to me. “Did you eat?”

  “I had some snacks that the caterers gave me to nibble on. Have you tried the salmon puffs? They are excellent.”

  “I’ll be sure and eat some at the party,” I said, gently turning and moving her toward the gatehouse. “You might even have time to sleep. I could call you—”

  “I forgot. There are some things in the conservatory that need to be moved.” She started in that direction. “Candlesticks. And they want one of us to decide where to put them.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, turning her around again. “But only if you promise to put your feet up and relax for an hour.”

  “Kitzi, you are the bossiest child in the state, even as an adult,” she said. “I was planning on resting anyway, so go help in the conservatory.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said, giving her a salute.

  I picked up some carrot sticks in the kitchen and munched my way to the conservatory.

  I love that room whether it’s in party dress or everyday casual mode. The ceiling is high with thousands of panes of beveled glass. The floor is tile, better to have all the beautiful plants that my grandfather cultivated. There are gardenias in tall pots, and two palm trees are in the actual earth, where the tiles are cut out. There is a towering fountain in the middle with blue tiles in the pool around it.

  Normally I have furniture in here, too. About four seating areas, but all of that was in the storage building behind the garage to make way for tables to seat the guests. The small, round rented tables were covered in teal tablecloths and decorated with white flower arrangements of carnations, roses, and mums. Each held a sparkling teal ribbon and bead ties. Teal is the color used for ovarian cancer awareness.

  Tomorrow there would be teacups and saucers on the tables, along with some luscious cookies, candies, and scones, but tonight, all the drinks would be coming from the three bars set up around the room. Hors d’oeuvres would be on the elegantly decorated banquet tables. I sighed with pleasure just looking at the room. Like most of us, I love beautiful things, and I like them even better when they serve a useful purpose. Like Miss America raising money for hungry children, the Manse was doing what it was created to do: help all kinds of charities, which in turn helps people in need.

  Beth touched me on the arm. “No time for daydreaming, we have work to do.”

  “Between you and my mother I’m working my tail off today.”

  “Not yet,” she said, looking at my rear end. Then she pointed to the fireplace.

  It’s another of the house’s architec
tural focal points of native limestone, called Austin stone by some. It’s a pale cream color with orange marbling. The firebox itself is black from the soot of years of use. A massive fern sat in front of it. Above the fireplace the mantel is wide. Today it was covered in a teal runner with gold threads. Someone had created sparkling bead tassels that hung off both ends.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “They’d like to display the tourmaline necklace up there and some other things. Where do you want to move your stuff?”

  On the floor were two heavy brass candlesticks and some plaques given to my father and grandfather in gratitude for something or other that they had done. “Why don’t you put the plaques in that glass cabinet upstairs, and I’ll put these things in the living room.” I made an ugh sound as I picked up the candlesticks. “These could be part of my exercise program.” I lifted one high, then the other. “One, two, three, four. One, two—”

  “You don’t have an exercise program.”

  “I do now.” I made my way to the living room. “One, two three, four. One, two, three, four.” The table behind the sofa was the perfect spot, and it was close so I didn’t have to go very far. I put them there and rearranged a few other things to make space. What I know is that when people come to the Manse they like to look around. I don’t blame them; I’m exactly the same way when I go to a home that someone has worked hard on. I knew that at this event there would be people who would peek cautiously into every room, and others who would make themselves at home, bringing their drinks in here to find a soft chair. I like that guests feel comfortable enough to enjoy the Manse. It let’s me know I did my job right.

  I turned on a few lights and went back to the conservatory, where Beth was waiting for me. “Next,” she said, “I could really use some help setting up the booth. Do you mind?”