by Beth Duke
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.” He held my eyes. “None of it compares to the way I feel about you, Ronni. That’s the past, and we should be talking about now.”
“There’s something else. Who is Carrie Douglas?”
Rick shook his head and was on his feet in a flash. “She mentioned Carrie to you? I don’t believe this. Damn Vicky, she’s gone way too far. I have to go. I’ll be back, but I have to leave for a while.”
“Just tell me who she is, Rick.”
He was almost at the door already. “She’s a girl I knew.” Rick read my face. “No, not like that. She’s an innocent girl who died, and Vicky isn’t going to use her this way. She’s not going to use me anymore, either, that’s for damn sure.”
He slammed the door and it reopened a few seconds later. Rick dropped my drenched cans of soup and bruised apples into the apartment and slammed it again.
thirty-two
VIOLET
Beatrice, newly restored, stood outside Violet’s bedroom door. She knocked lightly and announced, “They’re here. She brought her husband and little boy, too. Marched in like they own the place.”
Violet opened the door with a shaky hand and stood smoothing her black dress. “She probably thinks she does own the place. Tolly hadn’t spoken to her in twenty-eight years, and she was surprised to hear he had a wife. I’m sure she’s hoping he included her in the will. It’s going to be a major shock, traveling from California for nothing. He left almost everything to me.”
“Do you know that for a fact?” Beatrice reached to tuck an errant piece of Violet’s hair in place, shaking her head with doubt over any good Tolly might’ve done for his wife.
“His attorney called yesterday. He’s a very nice young man named Melvin Sobel, and he assured me,” Violet paused to phrase it delicately, “I needn’t worry about finances.” She turned for a final look in the mirror and turned to join her sister-in-law downstairs. “Please bring us some sweet tea and cookies or muffins, Beatrice. We’ll be in the formal dining room.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes at the thought of Violet making her visitors as uncomfortable as humanly possible in that rigid setting, when her usual style would be the library or living room. She was delighted, though, because she’d be able to hear every word from the kitchen.
All Violet knew of Charlotte Thompson Andrews was Tolly’s description of a woman so embittered by his success investing and managing their parents’ money she refused to speak to him. She’d set off for Hollywood at nineteen, weeks after her father followed Mother to heaven, with fifty thousand dollars from her brother and a warning there would be no more. He’d said she was pretty and spoiled then. Now she was a handsome older woman at best, a failure as an actress with a husband who owned a corner drugstore catering to the movie stars she’d dreamed of working and playing with. Tolly had kept tabs on Charlotte; he knew he had a nephew but had never tried to meet him. When Violet walked into her living room she found the three of them picking up vases and figurines like they were casing the house. She cleared her throat and enjoyed the little jump Charlotte made. Violet hugged each of them and asked them to follow her into the dining room, where seven-year-old Herb Andrews grabbed two of Beatrice’s cinnamon muffins and asked for a Coke.
The husband, Ron Andrews, looked like a man who’d suffered mightily over the years. He was rail thin and wore the expression of a basset hound. Violet couldn’t see any trace of prettiness in her sister-in-law, just a frozen mask of pained politeness.
“The service is at two o’clock, and we’ll need to arrive by one,” Violet began. “I’m so sorry for the loss of your brother, Charlotte.” She held the other woman’s eyes and offered her hand. “I know you weren’t in touch, but I know he cared about his baby sister.” She watched Charlotte’s eyes light up at the possibility of inheritance. “I should tell you that Tolly prepared his will years ago, and his attorney has contacted me with its provisions. He left you ten thousand dollars, Charlotte, and five thousand for Herb.” Violet watched her sister-in-law’s face slowly melt into understanding and acceptance.
“Oh, I see,” Charlotte managed. “Well, he was kind to remember us, wasn’t he?” She stood abruptly and grabbed a wincing Herb, forcing him to put down the cookies he was pocketing and step away from the table. Her husband joined her with no hint of his feelings. Violet thought she recognized a marriage much like her own, with a Thompson firmly in control. Charlotte dragged her family out of the room. “We’ll see you at the church,” she tossed over her shoulder. “We want to arrive early and greet some old friends.”
“Of course,” Violet said. She was pretty certain she was not to be considered a friend from that point on. “There’s one more thing, Charlotte. I’m sure you know how Tolly felt about Los Angeles,” she watched Charlotte’s face twist into a grimace, “and he hoped you’d encourage Herb to return to Alabama for college. If he does, all his expenses will be paid by a trust he set up. It has to be The University of Alabama, though.”
“Of course we’ve been saving for Herb’s education. We’ll keep that in mind when the time comes. I’m sure he’ll prefer an Ivy League school or perhaps something closer to home.” She turned on her spiked heel and clicked her way across the parquet floor and out of the house, little Herb in her wake. Her husband offered Violet an apologetic glance and closed the door softly behind them.
thirty-three
RONNI
I was sitting on my bed alone at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, drinking my third glass of wine, numbing my heart at the expense of my liver. Rick hadn’t texted or called since he stormed out of my apartment the night before. I was hurt, angry, and puzzled about Carrie Douglas. Google searches told me nothing. I’d tried to read, to watch TV, to sleep. I was incapable of anything except paying attention at work. I almost wished I’d scheduled a shift.
My phone rang and I grabbed it, recognizing the landline at the lakehouse and expecting Rick’s voice.
It was Victoria, on the cell phone number Rick must have furnished her.
“Ronni,” she began, “I should explain about Carrie Douglas. She worked in a bank where Rick used to provide security, a pretty young blond thing. She flirted with him incessantly and even called our house.”
“And this was when you were still married?” I took a hearty swallow of Moscato.
“Yes, it was. And Rick wrote her little notes and took her to lunch, though I found all this out much later. I didn’t really suspect anything until he rushed off to the hospital in the middle of the night. The phone rang and he was gone. No explanation.”
“Were they having an affair?”
“I don’t know if you’d call it that, but he encouraged her and things obviously went too far. Carrie thought she was in love with my husband. She took a handful of Xanax and Percocet. She died before reaching the hospital, but she left behind a note detailing all the many failures in her life. Not having Rick was one of them.”
“That must have been horrible for him.” I couldn’t help it. I felt defensive, whether from wine or love or both.
“It was horrible for a lot of people,” Victoria answered. “But it didn’t happen in a vacuum. Rick loves attention. He loves the chase. I told you that.”
“That may be, Victoria. Are you saying he was responsible for her death? It sounds like there’s a lot more to the story.”
“I never said he was directly responsible. He can tell you the rest. Rick’s on his way there now, and the boys and I are moving to a hotel tomorrow. Good luck, Ronni.”
She hung up without another word.
A few hours later he knocked at my door.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t believe she told you about Carrie, and I was too shocked to know what to say. It was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced, Ronni. So I told Vicky she had to set things right, though I’m sure she still made me look horrible. Maybe even responsible. But I wasn’t, Ronni, I swear.” He had tears in his eyes, standing there helpless in his
official uniform, twisting his hat in his hands. “She was a beautiful girl, but she was disturbed, I guess you’d call it, and I tried to help her. I did compliment her a lot. I did tell her she’d find the right person, who would adore her. I wrote her encouraging little notes. I took her to lunch once or twice, but I swear...even her parents didn’t blame me. Her note talked about an ex-boyfriend and bullies in high school and the bank manager and on and on. The reference to me was that she loved me and could never have me. She never said a word, Ronni, I had no idea. I never cheated on Vicky, even though she’ll move heaven and earth to try to make you think I did. You’re supposed to believe I’m a liar and a cheat and incapable of commitment. She’s trying to ruin what we have together. I love you, Ronni. I’d never hurt you. I never meant for Carrie to get hurt. My God, I thought I was helping that girl.” He was crying now. I took the hat and set it down, then wrapped my arms around him.
“We don’t ever have to mention Carrie again,” I whispered. “As for the rest of this, I’m exhausted, Rick. I’m not saying it’s all settled, but let’s end it for tonight.” I took his hand and led him to my bedroom, closing the door against the world.
Afterward I lay with my head on Rick’s chest and talked about anything but our pasts or our future together.
“I need to tell you a few things.” I traced a path through his soft chest hair. “First, I gave Deanna the book money.”
“Good. I was hoping you’d do that.” He hugged me and kissed the top of my head. “You have a beautiful heart, Ronni.”
“And she made me go and talk to Jocelyn. In person.”
“I thought she might. How did it go?”
“Pretty much as I expected, and it dredged up a lot of painful memories, but I’m glad I did it. I’m definitely able to see her the way I should see her now. I’m not afraid of her. She’s pathetic.”
“I’m sorry, Ronni. Maybe I should never have told you about her.” He clasped his hands behind his head and studied my face.
“Sometimes you have to confront the rattlesnake or the airplane or the building’s rooftop or the mother,” I said. “I can move on now.”
“Good,” he stroked some hair back behind my ear and kissed my forehead.
“Oh, and the book was rejected because it’s too short. I’m allowed to resubmit it, though.”
“Then we will fix it. I have five hours until I have to be on patrol, babe. Good thing I left a fresh uniform in your closet. Let’s get some sleep.”
I watched his profile in the darkness and waited until his breathing was deep and regular. “God, I love this man,” I whispered.
Rick’s mouth tilted ever so slightly upward. “He loves you, too,” he mumbled and threw an arm over his eyes.
The next morning I rolled over and inhaled the pillow where Rick’s head had rested, hugging it to me and trying to remember what time he said he’d be back. I had twenty-four glorious hours until I had to return to Fairfield Springs.
I found myself concentrating on Violet’s life instead of mine, an old habit.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture the Cool Kids’ Table of several years ago. Mr. Perkins had his wheelchair next to Violet, paying rapt attention to her every word. Rose Perkins didn’t live in the nursing home, and if she joined Mr. Perkins for a meal they sat at a small table near the kitchen. If she and Violet knew each other, they never showed it.
Mr. Davidson was usually laughing and making the rest of them join in. I could clearly remember his knitted sweater vests and bright bow ties. He was easily the most dapper dresser among Fairfield’s male population, and I saw more than one old woman try to divert his attention from Violet.
I wished I’d known Mr. Perkins was Johnny and Mr. Davidson was Sam. Violet never told me anything about their relationships to her until they’d both passed away. So much history, invisible to all but those three. It must have felt like there were six of them, present and former selves side by side in that place, day after day.
It was beautiful outside. The skies really are so blue in Alabama most of the time, and the weather was just cool enough to make me feel energetic. I threw on some yoga pants and a t-shirt and set out for a long walk to the nearby park. It had trails through the woods and I’d discovered nothing helped inspire me more than a silent, solitary hike. I came home pleasantly tired and feeling accomplished. The inspiration turned out to be cooking for Rick instead of writing, so I was heading to the grocery store for spaghetti ingredients and garlic bread after I got cleaned up.
Halle watched me through the shower door and tried to paw her way in. I was almost tempted to let her experience it once and for all and cure her fascination.
When Rick opened the door at six, the apartment was perfumed with garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove. I’d lit candles on the kitchen table and offered him a kiss with a glass of wine.
“This is perfect, Ronni. I’m tired and hungry and you are an angel. Thank you.”
“Why don’t you go shower and relax? I’ll have dinner ready in about thirty minutes.” I grinned and turned him toward the bathroom, feeling all wife-y and proud of myself. I measured spaghetti noodles and tasted the sauce for the tenth time. It was delicious. By the time Rick plopped onto the couch I had everything set for a romantic evening.
Again: very proud of myself.
I snuggled up next to him and inhaled deeply. “Mmmm. I love your freesia shampoo.”
“Yeah. I really need to bring some manly stuff over here.”
“You’re manly enough to counterbalance Strawberry Shortcake shampoo, Mr. O’Shea.” I took a deep gulp of wine. “I love having you to myself and...”
I was interrupted by the smoke alarm shrieking and smoke billowing from the oven. “Oh, no, no, the garlic bread!” It was fully on fire and I grabbed a glass of water and threw on it as Rick stabbed the detector over and over before finally shutting it off. I was removing a soggy black mess from the oven as someone banged on the door. Rick answered it to find my neighbor, Mr. Eldredge, anxiously peering into my apartment. “Is there a fire? Do I need to call 911? Are you all right?”
“Everything’s fine, Mr. Eldredge,” I smoothed my sweaty hands down my sides and walked to the door. “Just a little kitchen mishap. I’m sorry.”
“Well, as long as you’re okay.” He looked Rick up and down suspiciously.
“This is my boyfriend, Rick O’Shea.”
He stuck out his hand. “Frank Eldredge. Ricochet. Is that a nickname?”
“No, sir, it’s a curse. My first name is Rick. My last name ...”
“Oh, I get it. Well, as long as you’re all right, Ronni.” He turned to leave. “Take good care of her, O’Shea. She’s a nice girl.”
“I know it and I sure will, Frank. Thanks for checking on her.”
“Sometimes paper thin walls are a good thing, I reckon.” He eyeballed Rick one last time and left.
“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your first episode of Domesticity with Ronni,” I laughed. “There’s still spaghetti.” At that moment I heard the sizzle of water boiling out of the pot and running all over the stove.
“I’ll get it,” Rick grinned and wiped a smear of spaghetti sauce off my cheek. “You sit down and finish your wine. You cooked, I’ll serve. Protect and serve is what I do.”
I rolled my eyes and headed for the table.
Rick spent a month trying to locate CeeCee Wilson with no luck. He held me in his arms one night and told me maybe I wasn’t meant to know the missing parts of Violet’s story, not meant to finish the book. “Maybe,” he said, “you’re supposed to keep taking care of the people at Fairfield Springs. It’s something you were born to do, with the kindest heart I’ve ever known.” He kissed my forehead.
“I feel like I’m supposed to know more, Rick. It’s almost like Violet is whispering to me sometimes, telling me to keep looking.” I rubbed my temples. “I know she left me a lot to write about, but something big is missing. I just know it. Do you think CeeCee died?”<
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“No, that would’ve made her easier to locate. All I have is Mary Cecelia Wilson, born in Anniston in 1943. Some files were destroyed in a courthouse fire years ago. There’s no record of her marriage, and if she’s out there she’s not a Wilson.” He sighed. “I’m not giving up, babe. I know how important this is to you. And I will keep using my keen police brain until we get an answer, okay?”
I kissed him and turned on my side to sleep. “I’m counting on you, Rick O’Shea. You are my knight in shining khaki.”
Two days later Rick pulled up in his cruiser as I dove into my car after work, drenched by an afternoon thunderstorm. He flipped his lights on and drove closer, decorating the parking lot a celebratory flashing blue. He knocked on my window with a big grin, water dripping from the brim of his hat, and pulled the door open. Rick leaned into the car, all official, and announced, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to take you to Atlanta. You’re needed for the questioning of CeeCee Wilson, and you’re not going to believe who she turned out to be.”
A few days later we were led through a warren of offices and cubicles, a few occupied by people we recognized immediately. CNN’s headquarters hummed with activity and excitement. A secretary in her mid-fifties rose to greet Rick and me, indicating a sofa and saying, “Bettina will be just a moment. Please make yourself at home.”
The woman who emerged and waved us into her plush office looked as though she couldn’t possibly be more than forty-five years old though we knew she was over seventy. Her chestnut hair was swept into an elegant chignon, a few careless tendrils framing her ivory skin and amber eyes. She wore a perfectly tailored suit of deep brown silk shantung. I suspected it cost more than I made in six months. Bettina Hughes, the face of CNN’s breaking news, settled into her leather throne and clasped her hands on her desk. “I was very surprised to get your call, Mr. O’Shea. No one knows anything of my background in Alabama, and for obvious reasons I intend to keep it that way.” She glanced nervously at the closed door. “If you’re not here to extort me, why in the world would you want a meeting?”
