by that's me
It's just a shame his own father isn't more attentive. Brian has his limits. Which is why he's been virtually useless here. All he's done is golf, complain about the muggy weather, and express his outrage over Phyllida's token inheritance.
"Do you need me to help you, Phyll?"
She looks up in surprise at her husband's unexpected offer, then realizes Brian is talking about the suitcase, not the unfortunate state of her life in general.
"Go ahead." She steps aside and allows him to deftly rearrange the clothes inside. He quickly manages to get it closed.
As he does, she can't help wishing he was this efficient when it comes to other things. Household help- the nanny and maid and gardener-can do only so much. They don't provide emotional, intellectual, or financial support-and neither does her husband.
You 're on your own, she tells herself, not for the first time.
A few minutes later, on the circular drive before the white-pillared portico, she presses her child in a tearful embrace, then offers her husband a perfunctory kiss good-bye.
"Come home soon," he tells her. "Wills isn't the only one who's going to miss you."
Watching Brian climb behind the wheel of the rental car, she wishes she was still in love with him. Life would be so much simpler if she was.
He starts the engine and glances at the gas gauge. "Hey, it's full."
"I know. I took it down to the Mobil station by the causeway last night."
"Fom pumped gas?" he asks incredulously.
"No! A very nice young man did. It's full serve."
"But why even bother?"
"Because it was almost on E."
"So? I can just bring it back to the rental place empty and they'll add the gas charge to the bill."
Right. At some ridiculous price per gallon.
Does Brian not grasp that they can't afford to squander money now?
She, who has never pumped gas in her life, was almost tempted to pull up to the self-serve pump. But she isn't that desperate-yet. Anyway, it was kind of flattering to flirt with Kevin, the obviously smitten surfer-boy attendant, as he pumped her gas.
"Okay, then," Brian says, shifting into drive. "I guess we're off." '"Bye," Phyllida calls, blowing kisses at Wills and jogging after the car a little ways as it heads slowly down the dappled drive beneath the verdant arch of towering oaks cloaked in silvery Spanish moss.
Then it disappears through the gates, leaving her alone.
It's a beautiful day. They should have a nice flight- at least, the takeoff portion of it, she thinks, looking up at the clear blue sky beyond Oakgate's familiar brick silhouette.
Her eye follows a white trail to a distant plane buzzing along, until a shadow passing directly overhead captures her attention.
She trains her eye on it and realizes that it's a circling vulture. Within moments, it's been joined by several others, swooping gradually lower, toward the gabled roof.
Phyllida knows that the ill-fated prey must be somewhere in the tibicket behind Oakgate, but from this vantage, it almost seems as though the prey lies in the house itself.
It's some kind of omen, she thinks, as goose bumps rise on her bare arms.
I'm never going to see my baby again.
The thought darts into her mind with all the premeditation of the stray orange butterfly flitting among the hibiscus blooms along the drive.
Of course she's going to see Wills again.
But…
What if Brian turns his back in the airport and a stranger snatches him?
What if his plane crashes?
What if hers does?
Oh, God.
Chilled despite the ninety-degree heat, Phyllida wraps her arms around herself in an effort to keep a sudden, inexplicable panic at bay.
It's normal to worry, she assures herself. And those vultures don't mean anything. They're just looking for a meal in the marsh.
Probably every single person who ever sends off a loved one on an airplane wonders, at least just in passing, about the possibility of a crash.
And of course she's uncomfortable with the prospect of her irresponsible husband transporting their child across the continent, not to mention the lengthy separation to follow. Who wouldn't be?
Calm down, Phyllida. Everything's going to be just fine.
Gradually, the chill subsides. The winged black predators have disappeared from sight, no doubt to feed on some hapless swamp creature.
Walking on toward the portico, she once again feels the warm sunlight on her bare shoulders; becomes aware of the pleasant, rhythmic hum of insects in the tall grass that lines the drive, punctuated by occasionally chirping birds.
Then Phyllida hears another sound, spilling from a window somewhere overhead, on the side of the house.
Female voices.
And they're arguing.
Her own anxiety conveniently forgotten, she smiles thoughtfully.
Sounds like Charlotte and her daughter are at it again.
"So how's the house coming along?" asks John Hirsch, the architect who designed the Maitlands’s renovation, as he and Royce walk off the tennis court at the sprawling Achoco Island Club overlooking the shimmering blue Atlantic.
"Slow and steady." Royce mops his forehead with a towel, then gulps the rest of the lukewarm water left in his bottle before saying, "Charlotte and I are heading over there today to take care of some finishing details."
John's mouth quirks. "Fun stuff."
"She thinks so." Royce shakes his head. "I have a feeling I'm going to spend the rest of the day comparing shades of paint." 'Trust me, you are."
They've arrived at the white-clapboard men's locker room complex. Royce holds the door open, then follows John into the welcoming blast of air-conditioning.
"You have no idea how anxious I am to get this whole renovation thing over with and move into the house," he tells John. "Especially now that-"
"Now that what?"
Royce hesitates. "You know… now that this whole tiling happened with her grandfather, and we have all these people staying with us."
They're in the locker room now; the place is bustling as always on a Saturday morning. Men linger in the dim, climate-controlled quarters, some chatting amiably in pairs and threesomes.
"Getting a little crowded over at Oakgate, is it?"John asks as he and Royce make their way past others in various stages of undress to two lockers at the far end, where they stashed their belongings earlier.
"It's not that…"
"What is it?"
Royce shrugs, conscious that others might be listening to their conversation. "Nothing, really. Nothing specific, anyway."
"You don't sound so sure about that. Did something happen?"
"I don't know." 'You don't know?" John echoes, glancing up at him over
the door of his locker on the bottom row. "What do you mean?"
"Just… I think somebody might have gone through my stuff," Royce says in a low voice as somebody slams a locker door in the next aisle.
"What?"
"I don't want to broadcast it, okay?"
"Sorry, but I didn't hear you." Looking over both his shoulders, Royce sees several club members who are apparently absorbed in their own business.
He repeats what he told John, and his friend's eyebrows shoot toward his sweat-dampened forehead.
"Is something missing?" he asks Royce.
"I don't know. I couldn't tell. But everything in my bedroom drawers and closet was moved around, just slightly. Just enough so that I could tell somebody had gone through it like they were looking for something."
"Cash?"
"Who knows? I leave money in my pockets all the time. I wouldn't know if any was missing."
"What about Charlotte? Did somebody go through her drawers, too?"
"I have no idea. I didn't mention it to her," Royce confesses.
"Don't you think you should? What if one of her relatives is a kleptomaniac?"
"It doesn't have to be her relatives," Royce is quick to point out. "There's a housekeeper, and a nurse who comes in to take care of her aunt, and then there's her daughter-"
"You don't think her kid is snooping around your room?"
"No, but she has friends. Maybe one of them-"
Noticing a surreptitious glance from the towel-clad stranger standing a few lockers down, Royce breaks off.
He shakes his head slightly at John, to let him know that they're being overheard.
"Sounds like you'd better get moving, my friend," John advises, shaking his head as he strips off his tennis whites. "The sooner y'all get that house finished and get the hell back to Savannah, the better."
Royce nods. "My thoughts exactly. Just-don't tell Charlotte about any of this if you see her. Okay? She's got enough going on with losing her grandfather and- well, you know how it is. She's really stressed. I don't want to worry her about something like this."
"I don't blame you. But watch your step. I wouldn't leave anything valuable lying around that house. And I absolutely wouldn't trust anybody around there, including your wife's kid."
"Don't worry," Royce says with conviction. "I absolutely don't."
"I wasn't sure you were going to show up," Gib remarks lazily from beneath dark sunglasses, as Mimi hurries toward the shady bench in Reynolds Square, their designated meeting place. "I've been waiting more than twenty minutes and it's hot as blazes out here."
"Sorry I'm late. It took me longer than I thought to get out of the house."
"You mean, to sneak out of the house without your husband figuring out what you were up to."
She chooses to ignore that comment, as well as the tall plastic cup of sweet tea he offers as she sits down.
"I don't have germs, you know," he persists, prodding with the straw beneath his lips.
She pushes it away. "I'm not thirsty."
"Suit yourself." He shrugs and sips the tea, watching her. "You look tired, Mimi."
"I am tired."
"Not sleeping well these days?"
She shakes her head.
He shrugs. "Who is?"
"I don't know… You look pretty well rested."
She can't help but resent him, sitting there casually in his Tommy Bahama sport shirt and pressed khaki shorts, his shaggy blond locks carefully, stylishly tousled. Of course she can't see his eyes, but she'd be willing to bet there are no dark circles beneath them.
"Looks can be deceiving," he points out.
Don't I know it.
"So what can I do for you this fine morning, Martha Maude?"
"It's Mimi."
"You don't look like Mimi anymore. And you sure don't act like her."
No comment from her. There's no arguing with that.
"Whatever happened to that girl?" Gib asks, reaching over to casually brush her hair back from her face.
She died with Theo Maitland on the beach that day.
That's what happened.
No…
No, it isn't .
She died in your arms, Gib, on the beach that night.
Aloud, she says merely, "She grew up," and flinches as his fingers brush her cheek.
"Happens to the best of us."
Not you, Gib. You'll never grow up.
He shifts his position on the bench, moving his hand away from her hair at last. "As much as I'd like to talk about the good old days, surely you didn't ask me to meet you here for that."
"No," she admits, "I didn't."
"And you didn't want to invite yourself along with me tonight, either… did you?"
"Where are you going?"
He hesitates slightly, as if still trying to make up his mind-not just about inviting her, but about where he's actually headed.
'There's a gallery opening on River Street," he says. "Want to come?"
"No."
"I didn't think so." He's watching her intently. "What do you want?"
She takes a deep breath and holds it. Once she plunges ahead with this part of the plan, there will be no turning back.
This is crazy. I should get out of here, she tells herself frantically, even as she maintains her outward composure. I should tell him to go to hell, and I should run back to my normal life as fast as I can.
Except…
That normal life-that precious, precious normal, everyday life-is no longer waiting for her.
She has no choice but to muster every bit of courage she possesses and tell Gib Remington exactly what she wants-needs-from him… and why.
"I don't care what the judge said, you are not leaving tins house this weekend… or until school starts, for that matter," Charlotte hurls at Lianna, who stares sullenly from the haven of her unmade bed.
"That so isn't fair."
"It so wasn't fair of you to break the rules by lying and sneaking around."
"At least I didn't break the law, like you are. Daddy is supposed to get to see me every other weekend."
Charlotte bites her lip to keep from retorting that Vincent has been free to see his daughter every other weekend for the past five years, per their custody agreement, and he's never bothered to uphold it.
She swore during the divorce that no matter how bitter things got between her and Vince, she wouldn't say a bad word about him to Lianna.
Charlotte's ex-husband might be a snake, but he's her daughter's father nonetheless. Someday, Lianna is bound to figure out on her own what kind of man he really is. Until his inevitable free-fall from the pedestal, Charlotte intends to keep her opinion to herself.
That doesn't make it easy to see Lianna constantly upholding him as her hero, with Charlotte perpetually cast in the roll of shrew-and now, jailor.
"If your father is in town and he wants to see you, he can come here to Oakgate," she manages to say, quite reasonably, as she stoops to pick up a rumple
d pair of shorts from the floor by the hamper.
"He doesn't want to come here."
"How do you know? Did you ask him?"
"I don't have to. He hates it here. He knows he isn't welcome."
