She was surprised to find a Post-it attached to it that read:
Willa:
Your grandmother and my grandmother are the only two surviving members of the original club, and I’d like to plan something special for them at the party. Call me and let’s try to work something out.
Pax
Her handwriting was pretty, of course. Willa remembered that from high school. She had once taken a note that Paxton had accidentally dropped in the hallway and kept it for months—a strange list about characteristics Paxton wanted her future husband to have. She’d read it over and over, studying Paxton’s sloping y’s and jaunty x’s. She’d studied it so much, she found she could replicate it. And once she’d had that skill, it had been impossible not to use it, which had resulted in a very embarrassing encounter between uppity Paxton Osgood and Robbie Roberts, the school’s own redneck lothario, who’d thought Paxton had sent him a love letter.
The Walls of Water High School Joker had struck again.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Willa jumped at the voice, her heart giving a sudden kick in her chest. She dropped the invitation, and it flew on the wind to the owner of the voice, standing a few feet to the right of her Wrangler.
He had on dark trousers with a blue paisley tie sticking out of one of his pockets. His white dress shirt was translucent with sweat, and his dark hair was sticking to his forehead and neck. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. The invitation hit him flat against his chest and flapped there like a fish out of water. He smiled slightly, tiredly, as he peeled it off, as if this was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. This was a sign, she thought. Though of what, she had no idea. It was just what her grandmother would say when something unexpected happened, usually accompanied by instructions to knock three times and turn in a circle, or put chestnuts and pennies on the windowsill.
He took off his sunglasses and looked up at her. A strange expression came over his face, and he said, “It’s you.”
She stared at him until she understood. Oh, God. To be caught here was one thing; to be caught here by one of them was something else entirely. Mortified, Willa quickly slid off the hood and darted inside the Jeep. It was a sign, all right. A sign that meant Run away as fast as you can.
“Wait,” she heard him say as she started the engine.
But she didn’t wait. She kicked the Jeep in gear and raced away.
TWO
Whispers
Paxton Osgood had stayed late to finish some paperwork at the outreach center, so it was dusk when she left. She drove home, following the flickering lights of lampposts as they popped on, like drowsy fireflies leading her way. She parked in front of her parents’ house and got out of her car thinking that, if she timed this right, she would be able to have a quick swim before changing and heading back out to the Women’s Society Club meeting that evening.
This plan was carefully hinged on not facing her parents. She’d spent weeks tinkering with her schedule just so she wouldn’t have to stop and tell them about her day the moment she came in. This impatience, this avoidance, was a fairly new development, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it. Up until now, she’d never really minded living with her parents. Once a season, when she went to visit her Tulane sorority sisters in New Orleans, they would all marvel that Paxton still lived at home. They didn’t understand why she’d gone back to live with her parents after graduation in the first place, when she had the money to do whatever she wanted. It was hard to explain. She loved Walls of Water. She loved being a part of its history, of keeping it going. It struck a deep, resonant chord in her. She belonged here. And since Paxton’s twin brother Colin’s job took him all over the country, and sometimes overseas, Paxton felt it was only fair that their parents have at least one child nearby.
But last year, as age thirty loomed ahead of her like a black balloon, Paxton had finally made the decision to move out, not to another state, not even across town, but to a townhouse that her friend and realtor Kirsty Lemon was trying to sell, a mere 6.3 miles from Hickory Cottage. She’d measured it on her car’s odometer and offered it up as a major selling point to her parents. But her mother had been so upset at the thought of her leaving, of breaking up their happy little dysfunctional unit, that she’d been forced to back out. She did, however, move out of the main house and into the pool house, a small step but a necessary one. This was just going to take time.
The pool house gave her some privacy, but unfortunately there was no way to get to it without walking through the main house, so her parents always knew when she was coming and going. She couldn’t even bring in bags of groceries without her mother’s commentary. This was what her daydreams had come to. She fantasized about keeping a box of doughnuts on her kitchen counter and having no one comment on them.
She walked up the steps to her parents’ sprawling home, called Hickory Cottage because of the large number of hickory trees on the estate. In the autumn, the entire backyard became a mass of lollipop-yellow leaves, so bright they lit up the night like daylight. Birds nesting in the trees would get confused because they couldn’t tell what time of day it was, and they would stay awake for days until they dropped out of the branches with exhaustion.
She opened the front door silently, then clicked it shut behind her, knowing her parents would be watching CNN in the den. She would just tiptoe to the kitchen and out the French doors without them ever knowing.
She turned, and promptly fell over a suitcase.
She landed on her hands on the marble floor of the foyer, her palms stinging.
“What on earth was that?” Paxton heard her mother say. Then there was a rush of footsteps coming from the den.
Paxton sat up and saw that the contents of her tote bag had spilled out during her fall. All her lists were scattered around, which instantly made her panic. Her lists were private. She never let anyone see them. She quickly picked them up and stuffed them back into her bag, just as three people appeared in the foyer.
“Paxton! Are you all right?” her mother asked as Paxton stood and brushed herself off. “Colin, do something about these suitcases, for heaven’s sake.”
“I was going to take them to the pool house, but that was before I discovered Paxton had moved out there,” Colin said.
At the sound of her brother’s voice, Paxton spun to face him. She instantly ran into his arms. “You weren’t supposed to be here until Friday!” she said, squeezing him tightly, her eyes closed, breathing in that calm, easygoing air he always carried around him. She thought she might cry, she was so happy to see him. Then she was so mad she thought about hitting him. Dealing with her parents would be so much easier if he would just stop wandering around and come home for good.
“Things wrapped up sooner than I thought on my last project,” he said, pulling back and looking at her. “You look great, Pax. Move out and get married already.”
“No, don’t tell her to get married!” their mother, Sophia, said. “Do you know who she’s seeing right now? Sebastian Rogers.”
“I’m not seeing him, Mama. We’re just friends.”
“Sebastian Rogers,” Colin repeated as he looked at Paxton. “Didn’t we go to school with him? The effeminate kid in the purple trench coat?”
“Yes, that’s him,” their mother said, as if Colin had agreed with her about something.
Paxton felt her jaw tighten. “He doesn’t wear a purple trench coat anymore. He’s a dentist.”
Colin hesitated a few beats before changing the subject. “I guess I’ll put my suitcases in the guest suite upstairs, then.”
“Nonsense. You’ll put them in your old room. Everything’s just the way you left it,” Sophia said, then she grabbed her husband’s arm. “Donald, our babies are both here! Isn’t this wonderful? Get some champagne.”
He turned with a nod and left the foyer.
Over the years, Paxton’s father had slowly let his wife take over everything, to the point that now he mutely left all decisio
ns up to her, and most of his time was spent at the golf course. As much as Paxton understood her mother’s drive, and how much easier it was to do things yourself than to let others do them, she often wondered why her mother didn’t resent her husband’s absence. Wasn’t that the whole point to being married? That you had a partner, someone you trusted, to help with important decisions?
“I can only stay for one drink,” Paxton said. “I’m sorry, Colin. I have a club meeting.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch up later. I need to go out for a while this evening, too.”
Sophia reached over and brushed some of the unruly hair off her son’s forehead. “Your first night here, and you’re going out?”
Colin grinned at her. “And you can no longer give me a curfew. Drives you crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, you,” she said as she walked toward the kitchen, motioning for them to follow her with a flick of her perfectly manicured hand. Her tennis bracelet caught the light and sparkled, as if she were trying to hypnotize them into doing her bidding.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Paxton sighed and said, “Thank God you’re here. Will you please move back already?”
“I’m not through sowing my wild oats.” He shrugged his lanky shoulders. All her family was tall but, at six-five, Colin was by far the tallest. In high school, his friends used to call him Stick Man. His hair was darker than hers—which was a blond she kept meticulously highlighted—but they shared the same dark Osgood eyes.
“You still wear a suit to work,” she pointed out. “That’s not wild oats.”
He shrugged again.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’ve been up for two days straight. I need sleep. So what’s up with you and this Sebastian character?”
Paxton looked away and adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder. “We’re just friends. Mama doesn’t approve.”
“Does she ever? The Blue Ridge Madam looks fantastic, by the way. Better even than the photos you emailed me. I went up there late this afternoon. There are a few landscaping changes I need to make now that I’ve seen it in person, but otherwise it looks like everything is on track.”
“Are you sure it will be done before the gala next month?”
He reached out and squeezed her hand, and it almost made her cry again. “I promise.”
“Champagne!” their father called as he stomped up the basement steps. Colin and Paxton sighed in unison, then went to join their parents.
That night’s Women’s Society Club meeting was being held at Kirsty Lemon’s house, Lemon Tree Cottage. When Paxton got there that evening, Lemon Tree was decked out in all things lemon. The paper lanterns following the walkway to the front of the house had die-cut images of lemon wedges. The topiaries at the door had fake lemons on them. The door itself was covered in shiny yellow paper. Somehow, over the years, these meetings had become less about the actual charities they supported and more about trying to outdo one another in presentation.
Paxton went to the door and knocked. After drinks with her family, she had changed from her work clothes into a white dress and heels, then left at the same time as her brother. Their parents had actually waved to them from the driveway.
Kirsty opened the door. With her short brown hair and tiny hands, she was an optical-illusion woman, mysteriously making everyone around her seem larger than they really were. Paxton was five-ten and had at least eight inches and fifty pounds on Kirsty. She hated how she towered over her, but she never let it show, never stooped or wore flats around her. That would be shifting the balance of power. “Hi, Pax. Come in. You’re a little late.”
“I know. Sorry. Colin came home early. We were catching up,” she said as she entered and followed Kirsty to the living room. “How are you?”
Kirsty rambled on about her perfect husband and her lovably unruly boys and her fabulous part-time job as a real estate agent.
The twenty-four members sat in folding chairs set up in straight rows across the living room. Some had snack plates in their laps, full of scoops of lemon-chicken salad, lemon and broccoli mini-quiches, and tiny lemon meringue cups from the buffet table. There was a small table at the back of the room where three teenage girls, dressed in party clothes, whispered among themselves. They were called the Springs. These were the daughters of committee members being molded to take their mothers’ places when the time came. This was a young woman’s club. After a certain age, it was understood that you were no longer welcome, and that your daughter was expected to take your place. As a rule, rich Southern women did not like to be surpassed in either need or beauty. The exception was with their daughters. Daughters of the South were to their mothers what tributaries were to the main rivers they flowed into: their source of immovable strength.
Paxton smiled at the girls as she walked over to them and gave them small bags of chocolate. As president, she always gave the girls gifts at meetings, to make them feel included. They all hugged her, and she squeezed them back. She’d assumed she’d be married and have kids by this age, that she would be grooming her own daughter for this, as her friends were doing. She wanted it so much she would dream about it sometimes, and then she would wake up with the skin at her wrists and neck red from the scratchy lace of the wedding gown she’d dreamed of wearing. But she’d never felt anything for the men she’d dated, nothing beyond her own desperation. And her desire to marry wasn’t strong enough, would never be strong enough, to allow her to marry a man she didn’t love.
She skipped the food, as she always did because of the looks some of her friends gave her, eyeing her wide hips, and went to the front of the room, saying her hellos along the way. A strange breeze slithered by her, which sounded like whispers of secrets. She shook it off distractedly.
She took out her notebooks at the podium. “All right, everyone, come to order. We have a lot to discuss. RSVPs for the gala are pouring in. And Moira has a request that the Madam open to overnight guests early, so that some elderly attendees coming in from out of town can stay there the evening of the gala. But first, the reading of minutes from the last meeting. Stacey?”
Stacey Herbst stood and flipped through her notebook. She had recently started dying her hair red and, though everyone told her they missed her brown hair, the truth was she looked better as a redhead. But she would probably go back to brown soon. What people thought meant too much to her.
Stacey opened her mouth to read the minutes but, amazingly, what came out was, “I steal lipstick every time I go to the drugstore. I can’t help myself. I just drop a tube in my purse and walk out. I love that none of you know, that it’s a secret I keep from you.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth.
Paxton’s brows rose. But before she could say anything, Honor Redford, who had been president of the club before Paxton had taken over, blurted out, “Ever since my husband lost his job I’ve been afraid I won’t be able to afford the club dues, and none of you will like me anymore.”
Moira Kinley turned to the woman sitting next to her and said, “You know why I like going places in public with you? Because I’m prettier, and you make me feel better about myself.”
“I had that new addition built just because I knew it would make you jealous.”
“I really did have a boob job.”
“I know you have a bladder problem, but I tell everyone that the reason you have to go to the bathroom so often is because you’re bulimic.”
Now everyone was talking at once, and each thing they said was more outrageous than the last. Paxton stared at them impatiently. She thought at first that they were playing a joke on her, because some of them thought it was funny to try to get a rise out of her, as she was notoriously unflustered. But then she realized that everyone looked panicked, their eyes like horses running scared. It was as if everything they were secretly thinking had suddenly been given a voice, and they were powerless to stop it.
“Order,” Paxton said. “Everyone come to order.” T
his had no effect. The din escalated. Paxton stepped up onto her chair and clapped loudly, then yelled, “Come to order! What is the matter with you?”
The noise dissipated as everyone looked up at her. She stepped down. She could feel it now, an uneasiness creeping along her skin. She blinked a few times, because things suddenly seemed distorted, like looking at your reflection in a spoon. She had to stop herself from blurting out that she was in love with someone she shouldn’t be, something she’d never admitted to anyone. But now she was aching to say it. God, it felt like she would die, that she would choke on it, if she didn’t get it out.
She swallowed and managed to say instead, “Kirsty, I think something might be wrong with your air conditioner. I think we’re being affected by fumes.”
“At least I have my own house,” Kirsty murmured as she got up and crossed the room to the thermostat. “At least I don’t live in my parents’ pool house.”
“Excuse me?” Paxton said.
“Wh … I …” Kirsty stammered. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
Paxton rallied everyone and got them to open all the windows and take deep breaths. The sticky July heat crawling into the room quickly made everyone sweat through their light summer powders. The meeting was called to order, and the list of things needing to be addressed was checked off, but Paxton could tell some women just weren’t listening. It was close to ten o’clock when the meeting finally ended. Everyone kissed one another’s cheeks and rushed off to their respective houses to make sure everything was all right, that homes hadn’t burned down, that husbands hadn’t left, that their best dresses still fit.
Paxton sat in her car in Kirsty’s driveway, watching cars peel out, thinking to herself, What in the hell just happened here?
Instead of going home, Paxton drove to Sebastian Rogers’s house. She saw that his lights were still on, so she pulled into his driveway.
The Peach Keeper Page 2
