Robbie joined her at the rear of the car, a bouquet of roses in hand. His cheeks reddened at the look she gave them, and he shrugged before thrusting them into her hands. “Every woman likes flowers.”
Especially ninety-six-year-old women who likely hadn’t gotten many in their lives.
Marguerite Wilson’s room opened off a back hall. Large windows let in a view of a garden, where several residents sat on benches or in wheelchairs, talking, playing cards or just enjoying the morning. Marguerite was sitting in an armchair, a Bible open in her lap, a game show on the television mounted above. She was tiny, with white hair pulled back in a bun, her skin unlined, the angles of her face ageless.
She didn’t look familiar. No memories roused, no tickle that Anamaria had ever known her.
Anamaria knocked at the open door, then pitched her voice louder. “Miss Marguerite, can we come in?”
She glanced their way. “There’s no need to holler. My hearing’s much better than my eyesight,” she said with a chuckle. “Come on in.”
Anamaria led the way, drawing a wooden chair closer to the old woman and sitting primly on its edge. “I’m Anamaria Duquesne, and this is Robbie Calloway.” Holding out the flowers, she lowered her voice and said with a wink, “He brought you these. You’d better watch out for him. They say he’s a charmer.”
Arthritic hands accepted the bouquet, fingers stroking gently over the creamy petals. “A woman my age don’t need the charm. Just the flowers would do the trick.” After breathing in the roses’ scent, she fixed her gaze on Robbie. “Calloway, huh. I’ve worked for a few Calloways and known a few others. Some people think they’re all bad because they got money and power, but shoot, they’re just like any other family. Some good, some bad. Which are you?”
“I’m a little of both,” he replied.
Marguerite laughed. “If you’d told me you were all good, I wouldn’t have believed it. You’re too young and too handsome to not have a little bit of sinning in you.”
Slowly she turned her faded gaze back. “Anamaria Duquesne. My, you’ve grown up.”
“You remember me?”
“Even an old woman doesn’t go through a night like the last one we shared and then forget it. You look a bit like her, you know—your mama. You’re prettier than she was, and that’s saying a lot because that Glory was a pretty girl. All the men thought so.”
“Were there a lot of men?”
Marguerite tilted her head to one side and smiled. “Oh, they were drawn to her like flies to honey. She was so lovely and friendly and alive. She loved people, loved life, and people responded to that, both men and women.”
“Who was the baby’s father? Did she ever tell you?”
“Wouldn’t say.” The old lady raised one finger in admonition. “Not couldn’t. She didn’t know who your daddy was, but she knew this one. She just kept it to herself, all private-like. Had her reasons for doing so, but she kept them private, too. I always thought he might be married. Some of her men were. Or he might be white. Some of them were that, too.” She sighed softly. “There was men who would pass her on the street as if they’d never seen her before, then sneak off to see her in secret. I told her she should have more pride than to lay with a man who was ashamed to acknowledge her in public, but she just laughed. She said it wasn’t what they felt that mattered. It was how she felt, and she wanted what she wanted.”
What will be, will be, Mama Odette always said.
Glancing at Robbie, who’d taken a seat at the foot of the hospital bed, Anamaria wondered if the events of their lives really were fated or if it was just a rationalization for their lack of restraint. Was she destined to have an affair with him, or should she fight the attraction?
“Do you remember the names of any of these men?” he asked.
“Oh, goodness. There were so many. Black and white, young and old, single and married. I doubt Glory kept track of them all herself.”
Marguerite ticked off a dozen names on her bony fingers, thought about it, then added a few more. None of them meant anything to Anamaria, though Robbie reacted to the last one. “Really?”
Once again, the old lady raised that admonishing finger. “Men of God are not immune to temptation.”
“They should at least make an effort.”
Her smile was full of age and wisdom. “You can make all the effort in the world and still give in. A woman can be as wrong for you as it’s possible to be, but if she’s in your heart, it’s a battle you’re not going to win.”
“And was Glory in his heart?” he asked.
Another smile, this one mischievous. “No. Just his pants. That one, he gave in so often that he was tempted right out of the pulpit.” Her gaze flickered over their heads, and she picked up the television remote control. “My show’s about to come on. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk more. A little earlier this time.”
“We’ll do that,” Anamaria agreed as she got to her feet. “Can I put those flowers in water for you?”
The old woman gazed at the roses. “No. I’d like to keep them close right now. The nurse will do it later.” She pressed a button on the remote, and a soap opera theme song filled the air.
Anamaria and Robbie left her to her show. When they reached the hall, he hesitated. “Give me a minute, will you?” After her nod, he went into the room across the hall. “Hey, Pops,” she heard him say before the closing door blocked the conversation.
She felt conspicuous, left to stand there while he visited Tommy’s grandfather alone. The polite thing would have been to invite her inside, to introduce her to the elderly man or to at least have given her the chance to say no, thanks.
Had her mother truly not minded when men had refused to acknowledge her in public but had been more than willing to share her bed? Anamaria’s best guess would be that she hadn’t. Glory had loved life and had lived it on her terms. A few great passions, a few heartaches and a fine appreciation for love, family, men and sex—that was how Auntie Charise described her sister’s life. Those few words described every Duquesne woman’s life, and in another few generations, Duquesnes as yet undreamed of would probably remember Grandma Anamaria that way.
Would they suspect that for a time she’d wanted more?
Turning away, she paced off the tiles to the front entrance, pivoted and was halfway back down the long hall when Robbie rounded the corner and started toward her. Her pulse quickened, but she pretended not to notice, stopping in the center of a black tile, waiting for him to join her.
“How is Mr. Maricci?” she asked as he drew near.
Faint color tinged his cheeks. “He’s fine.”
She almost said, I would have liked to meet him. But having to ask took the pleasure out of it.
They left the building, and the air immediately turned warmer, smelled sweeter, felt freer. As nursing homes went, Morningside might be a good one, but nothing changed the fact that it was a place where people went to die. There was an inherent sadness about it, echoes of lives long ago ended and spirits passed on.
Robbie came around to unlock her door first. She stood, fingers curled around the sun-warmed metal, and met his gaze over the roof of the car. “Was Glory having an affair with the pastor of our church?”
“No. With the pastor of our church. I don’t remember much about him. Just that he stayed a while, then was gone. I’d have to ask Mom for the details.”
Another visit she wouldn’t be invited along for. She didn’t mind. She couldn’t mind. It was just the way life was. “Great. So my mother slept around and got a minister run out of town.”
Robbie frowned as he slid into the driver’s seat. “You don’t know that,” he said as she took her own seat. “Like Marguerite said, he gave in to temptation a lot. Besides, what’s wrong with enjoying sex? I like it just fine.”
Suddenly warm, she cranked the window down a few inches as he pulled out of the parking lot, and the wind rushed across her fevered skin and whipped her hair. She caught it in one ha
nd, closed her eyes and tilted her face to enjoy it.
Damn, but she was gorgeous, Robbie thought, stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye. The old lady had been right: he had more than a bit of sinning in him, and right now he wanted to do it all with Anamaria.
In secret.
And that was a problem.
It was a few minutes after eleven, and since he hadn’t eaten breakfast in longer than he could remember, he was ready for lunch. He didn’t ask if she was hungry, too, but took the backstreets to the edge of town, then turned north on River Road.
When they came to the brick-and-iron fence that marked the beginning of Calloway Plantation, she twisted in the seat to look. Both sets of elaborate gates were open, each driveway a straight shot through a yard the size of six football fields. Even at a distance, the Greek Revival house was clearly visible, with its massive brick columns and three stories of blinding white paint. The oldest live oaks in the county grew on either side, nearly obscuring the row of reconstructed slave quarters.
Uncomfortably, Robbie shifted in his seat, pushing the gas pedal until the needle hovered ten miles over the limit. He wished she hadn’t noticed the house, or seen the Calloway name, or caught sight of the slave quarters. He wished she wouldn’t say anything, and for once, she didn’t.
Their destination was a shabby little town ten miles north, consisting of a convenience store with a post office occupying one small corner, a competing gas station across the street and a ramshackle restaurant perched on stilts over the river. He could count on one hand the women he’d dated whom he could have brought here, but instinctively he knew Anamaria wouldn’t mind. “It doesn’t look like much, but they’ve got some of the best food around.”
She smiled as they got out and started across the gravel parking lot toward the building. “That’s what people say about Auntie Lueena’s. Of course, it’s not this isolated. It’s a given that if you go there, you’re going to be seen.”
His temper flared because inside he knew it wasn’t just a craving for catfish that had made him choose the place. “That isn’t why—”
She breathed deeply. “Hmm. Hush puppies. And sweet potato pie. Promise me good creamy slaw, and I’ll be in heaven.”
“It’s creamy,” he said grudgingly.
The waitress greeted them and asked about his brothers, his usual companions, then showed them to a booth where the window looked down on the lazy brown river. They ordered, and Anamaria sipped her sweet tea for a time before finally meeting his gaze.
“That’s some house. The photographs don’t do it justice.”
He felt as if, name aside, he should deny any claim to the plantation. The Calloways who’d built it had been dead nearly two hundred years. Robbie had never lived there and never would.
But he’d spent practically every weekend of his childhood there. Family dinners, holidays, reunions. His parents had gotten married in the gardens out back, along with his aunts and uncles and most of his older cousins. His grandma loved lavish weddings and had been disappointed when Mitch, Rick and Russ had opted for smaller, less formal ceremonies. She regularly pestered Robbie to carry on the family tradition and marry there, and he’d always figured he would. Though right now, even the idea seemed wrong.
“Does your family live there?”
“My grandmother. After Granddad died, she moved into the guest cottage on the east side of the gardens. About half my uncles wanted to move into the big house, but she opened it to the public instead.” His smile felt more like a grimace. “They weren’t pleased.”
“What about you? Were you hoping to live there someday?”
“Good God, no. What would I do with eight bedrooms, six bathrooms and a ballroom, all filled with antiques that may have been made for many things but not comfort?”
“You could fill those rooms with children.”
An image popped into his mind of little girls with cocoa-colored skin and big dark eyes, with bright, wide smiles and missing teeth and a penchant for pink. Pretty little mixed-race girls living in the house built by slave labor, running through the halls where generations of white Calloways had ordered about generations of black slaves and servants and playing, as Robbie and his brothers had, in the slave cabins.
Cyrus Calloway would turn in his grave. So, probably, would his contemporaries in the Duquesne family.
“Thanks, no. When I get married and have kids, I’ll consider a house. Until then, the condo is fine for me.”
She gave him a knowing look. “You’re not the first person I’ve met whose ancestors owned slaves, and I’m not the first person you’ve met whose ancestors were slaves.”
No, but she was the first one he’d wanted to have sex with. Besides, there was just something about seeing the grand mansion and the tiny miserable cabins with Anamaria sitting at his side.
“So where did you grow up if not at Tara?”
He waited as the waitress set platters in front of them, then unrolled his silverware from a paper napkin. “My parents’ place is back toward town, though it’s still on the property. When I was a kid, you could see across the field to Granddad’s house, but they’ve let the trees grow up since then.”
“Did your mother remarry after your father died?”
“No. Being married to him was miserable enough that she didn’t want to try again.”
Her smile was a far cry from the picture he had of her with her mother. It barely touched her mouth, curving the corners just a little, and looked wise beyond her years. “You can’t let one broken heart keep you from living.”
“Do you speak from experience?”
“Not my own. My family’s.”
“Sounds like your mother was probably the one breaking the hearts.” Like mother, like daughter.
“She broke her share, I’m sure. Suffered her share, too.” After a moment’s silence to sample the catfish on her plate—Excellent, she murmured—she asked, “Has your heart ever been broken?”
“Once.” At the time, he’d thought he would never get over it, now he had trouble recalling the woman’s face. “I was twenty and stupid. Or is that redundant? I was thinking marriage. She was thinking fun with as many guys as possible. She dumped me, I drank a lot, got into a lot of trouble and eventually got over it.”
“Do you still drink a lot?” She didn’t sound wary—didn’t look it, either. She might have been asking something as insignificant as whether he still worked.
“No.” He paused, then admitted something he’d never acknowledged before. “I’m a mean drunk. After Rick just about broke my face last time, I decided that since I couldn’t control my behavior while I was drinking, then I’d have to stop the drinking.”
“That’s not an easy thing.”
“No,” he agreed. It had been eighteen months, and he still missed the booze. His mouth still watered, and he still caught himself thinking, Just one drink. What could it hurt? But he hadn’t given in yet.
Deliberately, politely, she changed the subject. “It must have been nice growing up with three brothers.”
“You have two sisters.”
“But we never lived together. We didn’t get to know each other until we were teenagers. We’re close but not the way we would have been if we’d been raised together.”
“Why weren’t you?”
She ate for a moment before shrugging. “Mama was sixteen when Lillie was born. Lillie’s father was ten years older. He had money and a wife who couldn’t have children of her own and who didn’t mind raising someone else’s baby. Jass’s father was older, too, with a good job, a close-knit family and a strong conviction about living up to his responsibilities. He wanted to marry Mama, but she said no. When he wanted to take Jass, though, she said yes.” She smiled faintly. “And then there was my father, who apparently couldn’t have cared less about Mama or me.”
“He may not even have known you exist.”
She gave another careless shrug. “Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.”
Someone else might have doubted her, but Robbie didn’t. His own father’s absence from his life didn’t matter, either. Gerald dying when he did had been a good thing for Robbie and his brothers, and God knows, Sara’s life had improved. Whatever she’d felt for Gerald in the beginning, in the end she’d been happier without him.
Robbie didn’t want to be happier without someone he’d once loved and had kids with.
Anamaria pushed her plate away, caught the waitress’s eye and ordered a slice of sweet potato pie. When the waitress glanced at him, he shook his head. Watching Anamaria eat would be dessert enough for him.
The silence that settled around their table was close and comfortable. She sat, arms crossed loosely beneath her breasts, and watched the river, and he sat, watching her. She was aware of his scrutiny—he could see it in the faint smile that played over her mouth—but she didn’t mind. She let him look all he wanted.
But it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t help but wonder how much would be enough.
Or, with Anamaria, was there even such a thing as enough?
Chapter 5
The trip back to Copper Lake was quiet, followed by another journey along its backstreets. Anamaria gazed out the window, thinking about secrecy and temptation and pride, before she recognized the car next to them as hers. Glancing around, she saw that they were at the mall, that Robbie was waiting for her to get out of the car. She forced a smile as she opened the door. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You don’t have to go with me to see Marguerite tomorrow.”
His shrug was impossible to read. Not a problem, I’m happy to go, I’m happy to not go.
“I’ll see you.”
He nodded, muttering something that she barely heard as she got out of the car. Soon, she thought, but she couldn’t be sure.
Soon, she knew anyway. Destiny or foolish desire, he wouldn’t stay away. She didn’t want him to.
With a wave, she got in her car, started the engine, rolled down the windows and drove away. He was still sitting there when she caught her last glimpse before distance and traffic blocked him from sight.
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