Scandal in Copper Lake

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Thank you for the lemonade and your time,” he said as he passed through the doorway. On the second step he turned back, the charming smile still in place but absent from his eyes. “Watch your step with Lydia. She’s like family to me, and you don’t want to go messing with my family.”

  Anamaria leaned against the doorjamb, one arm outstretched to hold the screen door open. “You don’t want to go messing with Miss Lydia, either. She knows what she wants and how to get it.”

  He raised one hand as if to touch the strand of hair that had fallen loose from its clasp and now brushed her shoulder, then, only inches away, lowered it again. “You know what you want, too, don’t you? And you know how to get it. Luckily, I know how to stop you.”

  With those words, he took the remaining steps two at a time, strode across the dirt and got behind the wheel of his expensive little car. She watched him back out in a tight turn, then accelerate down Easy Street before she closed the door and returned to the rocker.

  Robbie Calloway didn’t have a clue what she wanted. Like most skeptics, his distrust of her abilities also meant a distrust of her. She was a fraud in his eyes, not just as an advisor but as a person.

  Her business was her business. What she’d said to Lydia, why she’d come to Copper Lake, everything she did…in the end, she bore sole responsibility for her actions, and she carried no regrets.

  When she returned to Savannah, she would still have no regrets.

  Especially not one named Robbie.

  Chapter 2

  Much of Copper Lake’s downtown area showed its two-hundred-year-old roots: red bricks softened to a rosy hue, dimpled glass, wood glowing with a well-deserved patina. At the heart was the square, manicured grass bordered with flowers, war monuments and walkways leading to and from the bandstand that anchored the park.

  Everywhere Anamaria looked, she saw beauty, prosperity…and the Calloway name—law offices, a construction company, doctors’ and dentists’ offices, investment and accounting firms, retail shops. Robbie Calloway’s office was on River Road, the building only a few years old but built to blend in with its vintage neighbors.

  Nice space for a man who thought ten hours a week in the office just fine. She worked sixty hours a week or more and would never own a place like that or a car like his. But she knew all too well that money didn’t buy happiness and neither did things. People were the only thing that mattered, and all the money in the world couldn’t buy the good ones.

  Then she thought of the Civil War monument she’d just passed and amended that thought: not anymore. Such places as the Calloway Plantation and Twin Oaks, Lydia Kennedy’s home, had undoubtedly relied on slave labor to do all the jobs that kept the families clothed, fed and wealthy. Slaves such as Ophelia, Harriett, Gussie and Florence Duquesne, their children and their grandchildren.

  Turning onto Carolina Avenue, she drove east. A few miles past the town limits sign was Twin Oaks, but she was meeting Lydia in town today. The older woman had suggested they meet at River’s Edge, the centerpiece of downtown. The Greek Revival mansion had undergone an extensive restoration and had been transformed into a beautiful white gem in the midst of an emerald-green lawn, all of it surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. It was open to the public for tours, parties and weddings, Lydia had told her, but not on Wednesdays. They would have the place to themselves.

  But with time to spare, Anamaria bypassed the street that would take her back to River’s Edge. She drove aimlessly, past parks and schools and stores—not the pricey ones downtown but the cheaper, shabbier ones on the outskirts. She located the church she and Glory had attended—a small structure that looked every one of its one hundred forty years in spite of its fresh coat of white paint. She tried to remember using swings on this playground, getting enrolled for kindergarten at that school, shopping for groceries at this market, dressing up in her Sunday best and skipping into the church.

  But nothing came. Her five years in Copper Lake had been diminished to a handful of memories.

  The last place she searched out was Gullah Park. It was a long, narrow section of land nestled alongside the river just north of downtown. There was a parking lot, a small playground, a handful of concrete picnic tables and a paved trail that followed the riverbank out of sight.

  She stopped at the entrance to the lot, her hands clammy, her fingers clenching the steering wheel. This was where her mother’s car had been found that morning, parked all the way at the end. She’d come there to walk, the police had told Mama Odette.

  Why? Mama Odette wanted to know. It was silly to get into a car and drive someplace just so you could walk. Not that Glory was above being silly from time to time—her silliness was one of the things Anamaria had loved best about her—but it struck her mother as strange even for her.

  Mama Odette wanted to know everything. As she faced the last days of her life, she’d developed a burning need to know about the last days of Glory’s life. The all-too-short time of the baby’s life.

  The blare of a horn behind her jerked Anamaria’s gaze to the rearview mirror, where a man waited impatiently for her to move. As she drove on, he turned into the parking lot. She would come back here, get out and walk that trail. Sometimes she had visions, sometimes there were just feelings and sometimes she drew a blank. She hoped she would learn something. She didn’t want to let Mama Odette down.

  Back at the square, she found a parking space on the north side of River’s Edge and entered the property through a side gate. Wide steps led to a broad gallery, its floor herringboned-brick, its ceiling painted sky blue. Sturdy wicker chairs, iron benches and wooden rockers were spaced along the porch, with pots of bright geraniums nestled at the base of each massive column.

  When she turned the corner at the front of the house, Lydia was standing near the door, gazing at her watch. She looked up at the sound of Anamaria’s footsteps and a welcoming smile crossed her face. “I couldn’t remember whether we’d settled on ten or ten-thirty or if I’d told you the front gate would be locked, but here you are, straight-up ten o’clock. Come on in.”

  Like Anamaria’s own house, the doorway opened into a hallway that ran front to back, with rooms opening off each side. Unlike her house, this hallway was fifteen feet wide and provided space for an elaborate staircase that would have done Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara proud. The walls were painted deep red and were a backdrop to forbidding portraits and landscapes in heavy, aged oils.

  “Our ancestors were a dour lot, weren’t they?” Lydia remarked as she led the way down the hall.

  “Some of them had a right to be.” But not these stern men and women whose narrow gazes followed them. They’d had wealth, influence and people to provide their every need. Ophelia, Harriet, Gussie and Florence had had nothing but their family, their gifts and their love of life—not even their freedom—but in her heart Anamaria knew they’d been the happier of the two groups.

  The door at the end of the hall led into a thoroughly modern kitchen with stainless-steel countertops, restaurant-grade appliances and, tucked away near a window, the cozy nook with padded benches that was their destination. A notebook lay open on the table, with snapshots of flowers scattered about. A cup of tea sat on one side; an empty cup waited on the other.

  “I stopped at Ellie’s Deli on the way and picked up some sweets,” Lydia said, moving the box from the nearest counter to the tabletop. Inside were a dozen miniatures—tiny croissants, sticky buns no bigger than a golf ball, petit fours and pecan tartlets.

  After they’d each chosen a pastry, Lydia sat back, her gaze settling on Anamaria’s face. “You don’t speak with those who have passed, do you?”

  “No. That’s my grandmother’s gift.”

  “And when she received that message from Mr. John—that’s what we all called Grandfather—you came all this way to deliver it?”

  “I was planning the trip anyway. I imagine that’s why Mr. John chose to speak to Mama Odette.” If he hadn’t, she would have u
sed the straightforward approach and simply asked to meet with Lydia. But the dead didn’t miss any opportunities, lucky for her.

  Lydia gathered the photographs into a neat stack, then set them and the notebook aside. “I’m reworking some of the gardens. Those are notes and pictures from last summer. Harrison says I have fertilizer running through my veins—a gift from Mr. John. I prefer flowers over just about anything.”

  But not children…or grandchildren. Anamaria could practically see the longing, dulled now after years of childlessness but still there. Still clinging to her like a distant hope, nearly forgotten.

  “Do you volunteer here?” Anamaria asked as she filled her cup from the china teapot, then sniffed the tendrils of steam that drifted up. Chamomile and lavender—Mama Odette’s favorite blend.

  “You could say that. I own River’s Edge—or, rather, it owns me. It belonged to the Calloways for generations, then passed into, then out of, my family. When it became available again a few years ago, I bought it, hired out the renovation and have been working on the landscaping myself.”

  Lydia refilled her own cup, then breathed deeply of the aroma as Anamaria had done. “Your mother prescribed this for me. At first, she brought it to me in little paper bags, then she showed me how to mix it myself. I have a cup or two every day, and I always think of her.”

  Even Anamaria couldn’t make that claim. Days went by when she couldn’t honestly say she’d thought of her mother even once. She’d loved Glory, but she’d done virtually all of her growing up without her. All of the usual significant mother/daughter moments in her life involved Mama Odette or Auntie Lueena.

  “I was so stunned when I heard what happened,” Lydia went on, gazing into her cup as if she might read her fortune there. “All I could think was that poor child. She’d done nothing to deserve that. So young, so innocent.”

  For a moment, Anamaria thought the poor child meant Glory. She’d been only twenty-seven when she died, and she possessed a childlike enthusiasm and wonder for all that life had to offer. But innocent? Mama Odette claimed she was born knowing more than most women learned by the time they were thirty.

  “Did you find another advisor?”

  Lydia shook her head. “I was better. Your mother helped me more than I can say. And then…” She shook her head again, then, with a deep breath, changed the subject. “I should warn you that my husband isn’t too happy that I’m meeting with you. He might do something foolishly overprotective.”

  “Such as instruct his lawyer to investigate me?” Anamaria asked with a wry smile.

  “Oh, Lord. He did the same thing with your mother—asked his lawyer to look into her background. Then it was Cyrus Calloway, my brother-in-law and Robbie’s uncle. We’re practically family, the Kennedys and the Calloways.”

  “That’s what Robbie said.”

  “So you’ve met him. Don’t let him charm your socks off.”

  “I’m immune to charm.”

  Lydia wagged one finger in her direction. “Only because the right man hasn’t tried. If I was thirty years younger, I’d take any one of Sara and Gerald’s boys. Though the older three have wives now who would snatch me bald if I even got too close.”

  It was easy to see Robbie Calloway charming the socks—and everything else—off most women, but not her. He distrusted her. She had priorities. He thought she was a threat to Lydia. She was very good at guarding her heart. Someday she would experience that hot, passionate, greedy love—all Duquesne women did—but not now. Not here. Most definitely not with him.

  “Why were you planning this trip?”

  Another quick subject change, but Anamaria wasn’t flustered. She’d known the question would come up, and she’d chosen the simplest, truthful answer. “Curiosity. I’m a year older now than my mother was when she died. I want to see where she lived, to talk to people who knew her. Mama Odette and Auntie Lueena have told me a lot, but I want to hear what other people know that they don’t. I want to know her.”

  Lydia nodded sympathetically. “It must have been hard for your grandmother, losing both her daughter and her grandbaby at the same time.”

  “It broke her heart.”

  “And yours.”

  Anamaria nodded. She might not remember much of life with Glory, but she knew it must have been good, because living without her had been hard, even surrounded by family who loved her.

  “You were a pretty little girl,” Lydia went on. “I didn’t see you often. Glory usually left you with a neighbor when she came to my house. But a few times, she brought you with her and you played in the garden while we talked. You wore frilly little dresses, and your hair was tied back with a bow. You’d say yes, ma’am and thank you and please just as solemn as could be. I told Glory she was blessed to have such a lovely daughter. And then she got blessed again.”

  A lot of people hadn’t seen blessings anywhere around Glory. Instead, they’d seen a stereotype: an uneducated black woman, illegitimate children, no legitimate means of support. But Glory had fit nobody’s stereotype.

  “You loved the flowers in my garden, especially the lilies. You have a sister named Lillie, don’t you?”

  “I do. And another named Jass.” Lillie was five years older and lived in South Carolina. Jass was two years older and living in Texas. They didn’t miss Glory the way Anamaria did, but they’d never known her the way Anamaria had. They’d been raised by their fathers, by paternal grandmothers and aunts and stepmothers.

  “And the baby would have been Charlotte.”

  Anamaria looked up, surprised. “Charlotte?”

  “Surely you knew that. Glory decided on it about a month before she passed.”

  Another of those details that she’d shut out after the shock of seeing her mother dead. She tried the name in her mind: Charlotte Duquesne. My sister, Charlotte. Not just the baby, so generic and impersonal, but Charlotte, with café-au-lait skin, chocolate-colored eyes, wispy black hair and tiny features with the exotic stamp of all her mixed heritages. Having a name made her more real and made her absence sharper, more intense.

  “So…” Lydia gazed across the table at her. “Glory used to say that you would follow in her footsteps. She said when you were three, you’d tell her someone was at the door a minute or two before they even stepped onto the porch. She said when you were four, all she had to do was think about fixing meat loaf for dinner, and you’d tell her no in no uncertain terms.”

  Anamaria smiled. To this day she couldn’t stomach meat loaf. It was the Thursday special at Auntie Lueena’s diner, making Thursday her regular day off. “I wish I remembered more about her.”

  “You were so young,” Lydia murmured. “It was so tragic.”

  Before either of them spoke again, the front door closed with a thud. “Miss Lydia? Are you here?”

  Robbie Calloway. Anamaria’s muscles tensed. Trust him to find them together; after all, less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d warned her to watch her step with Lydia.

  The older woman’s expression remained distant, and her response was absently made. “Back here in the kitchen.” She was still thinking about the tragedy of Glory’s death. Sadness and sorrow tainted the very air around her.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway, then the door swung open and Robbie walked in. Except it wasn’t Robbie, but someone who looked and sounded a great deal like him. One of his brothers, Anamaria realized with relief.

  He wore a dusty T-shirt with Calloway Construction stamped across the front, along with faded jeans, heavy work boots and a platinum wedding band on his left hand. He wasn’t quite as handsome as Robbie, but there was an air of blunt honesty about him. What you see is what you get.

  Lydia’s smile was warm, motherly, as she reached one hand to him. “I was hoping you’d stop by this morning. I caught one of your people about to dig up my lilies in front yesterday. After the chewing out I gave him, he might not be back.”

  “I told you, Miss Lydia, you’ve got to quit putting the fear of God int
o my subs. They’re just men. They don’t know how to handle a formidable woman like you.”

  As Lydia responded with a laugh and a protest, Anamaria sipped her tea and quietly observed Robbie’s brother. He radiated contentment. He loved his wife, she loved him, and they were having a girl in August. They would name her Sara Elizabeth, after their mothers, but he would insist on calling her Angel.

  It was so easy to see into some futures. So hard to figure out a thing about her own.

  “Russ Calloway, this is Anamaria Duquesne. She’s new in town,” Lydia said.

  He nodded politely in Anamaria’s direction. “You’ve met the right person to help you get acquainted. Miss Lydia knows everyone and everything that goes on in this town.”

  Lydia smiled modestly. “Not quite…but I’m working at it. And in that spirit, did you come looking for me just to brighten your day?”

  “Of course. And to tell you that the landscape guy will be over here at one, so you can scare him instead of his employee.”

  She smiled again, looking totally harmless, Anamaria thought, but she would scare the guy.

  After Russ left, Lydia said, “Those are the flowers your message was about. Mr. John’s prize lilies. I have an entire bed of them at home, and I’d transplanted some here. That idiot had his shovel in the ground about to uproot them when I stopped him.” Her expression turned serious, and she toyed with the teacup before finally glancing up again. “Do you have…You said there might be…”

  “Another message from Mr. John,” Anamaria said smoothly. “He’s concerned about Kent.”

  Another harmless message, like the lilies, she thought. But apparently it wasn’t harmless to Lydia. She stiffened, her hand frozen above her teacup, and the color drained from her face. As her hand began to tremble in midair, deep sorrow lined her face.

  With a heavy sigh, she busied herself for a moment, straightening photos that were already straight, closing the lid on the pastry box, securing the small tabs that held it shut. Finally she looked at Anamaria. “Kent is my sister’s boy. He’s a Calloway, for all the good it did him. An only child, born to a man whose standards were impossible and a woman too self-absorbed to be any kind of mother. If ever two people were ill-suited to have children, it was Cyrus and Mary. Harrison and I did what we could for the boy, but no matter how much your aunt and uncle love you, it’s still not the same as having your mama and daddy’s love…and that’s all Kent ever wanted.