“Coffee’s fine.”
In the kitchen, I found and filled three mugs—Tony the Tiger, Ronald McDonald and one that detailed a Virgo’s personality. CeCe didn’t look up to handling a china cup and saucer. I found a tray, put a sugar bowl and a small creamer on it and carried it all to the living room.
Mother’s eyes narrowed when she saw the mismatched assortment on the tray.
Virgos—observant, precise and inflexible. The mug had Mother pegged.
We sat for a moment, letting the warmth from the mugs seep into our hands. Then Mother said, “CeCe, Alice was right about one thing. I don’t think you should be alone.”
“One sister is driving in from St. Louis. She should be here anytime now. The other one is flying in from Charleston. And…” she swallowed, “I tracked Rob down in Thailand. He’s flying home.”
“Thailand?” Mother asked. “What’s he doing in Thailand?”
She was too far away for me to kick. That and my toes already hurt. Mother thought Thailand was a vacation destination? It must be nice to have a husband who isn’t into kinky sex. Time for a change of subject. “CeCe, I promised Bobby I’d tell the girl how he felt. Do you have any idea how I might find her?”
“None.” CeCe dropped her forehead to her hand. “I can’t seem to think straight.”
Mother scowled at me as if I’d said something out of line. Hell. She was the one asking questions about Thailand.
The doorbell rang.
“Ellison, why don’t you get that?” Mother asked.
I stood, ignoring the pinching sensation near my toes. Cutting my toes off with pinking shears would be less painful than the shoes. But kicking the damned things off wasn’t an option. I’d never get them back on. I opened the door. BeBe Sullivan stood on the other side.
“Thank God.” She pushed past me. “Every time I pulled off the highway, I tried to call. The phone has been busy for hours. I’m glad she’s not alone. She is all right, isn’t she? Where is she?”
“Living room,” I murmured. BeBe wouldn’t have heard me if I yelled. She was already bustling down the hallway.
“CeCe,” she called. “I’m here.”
I followed her at a more sedate, painful, gimping pace. Somehow I’d forgotten that CeCe’s sister was a force of nature, probably a Virgo like Mother.
By the time I reached the living room, Mother was taking her leave. “CeCe, call me if I can do anything. Promise?”
CeCe nodded.
“We’ll leave the two of you alone.” Mother scooped up her handbag and mine then glided toward me. “We can see ourselves out.”
“Thank you, Ellison,” CeCe said.
“You’re welcome. Call if you need anything.”
She offered me a smile. It didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “I will.”
“BeBe, lovely to see you. Come along, Ellison.”
I followed in Mother’s wake.
Outside, the sun touched on leaves just beginning to turn.
“What their parents were thinking I’ll never know. Those names.” Mother shook her head.
Three sisters—Belinda, Cecily and Delia—BeBe, CeCe and DeDe. I shrugged; there was no accounting for what parents did to their children. In the general scheme of things, matching nicknames seemed preferable to wedging yourself between a couch and a coffee table.
Mother focused her Virgo gaze on me. “What’s wrong with your feet?”
“Nothing. My shoes hurt.”
“Don’t wear them tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow when you have brunch with your father and me. I thought afterward we might play a round of golf.”
I owed Mother a favor. We both knew it. I just hadn’t thought she’d call in her chit so quickly. She had something up her sleeve. Probably Hunter Tafft. “Just the three of us, right?”
Mother’s response was a pleased smile, as if she held a hand full of trump cards.
I glanced at my bandaged wrist and somehow managed not to smile. I had a trump card too—and it was the ace.
Five
I arrived early for brunch—not because if I beat the crowd, I beat the scrutiny, not from an eagerness to see my friends and neighbors eat their weight in heavy food, and certainly not from eagerness to see Hunter Tafft, the man Mother had selected as my next husband. In fact, the mere thought of seeing him made my stomach go all fluttery.
I arrived early for strategic purposes. First, picking my chair at the table was essential. If I was spending the morning brunching with Hunter, I shouldn’t have to endure having my back to the room as well. I wanted the seat with my back to the lovely view of the golf course, the one next to the French doors that led to the terrace, the seat with the built-in escape route. Second, Jane Addison always brunched early. She had to—she had to finish in time to sit on open houses. Arriving thirty minutes early was worth it if I talked to Jane.
If you want to know the latest, befriend a real estate agent. A good one knows almost everything. After all, marriages, the last kid leaving for college, divorces, and deaths all sell houses. A really good agent also knows little things—who was spotted leaving a house not his own at three in the afternoon on a work day, whose trip to a “spa” was really a trip to rehab, and what Judi Barton paid for her most recent facelift. Too much. The poor woman’s skin is pulled so tight she looks like a vampire. A real estate agent as good as Jane might even know who Bobby Lowell had loved.
Elaine, the club hostess, led me to Mother and Daddy’s usual table. We passed a long, linen-skirted buffet loaded with enough food to end world hunger. Dilled crepes filled with sour cream and nearly transparent slices of smoked salmon sat next to a potato galette topped with bacon-wrapped kidneys. Country ham, cut paper-thin and served on beaten biscuits, vied with ham croquettes. Corn muffins dotted with sausage, a bottomless chafing dish of scrambled eggs, and broiled tomatoes with Chef Pierre’s special watermelon chowchow on the side beckoned. Brandy snifters filled with cantaloupe, honeydew and strawberries garnished with a sprig of mint and a dollop of whipped cream tried to compete with the pastry chef’s peach upside-down cake.
At a separate station, one of the sous chefs cooked made-to-order omelets. Next to him, nearly hidden behind a mountain of strawberries, another sous chef ladled batter into a waffle iron.
No one left brunch hungry.
Or thirsty. The bartender’s Bloody Marys were just spicy enough. I asked Elaine to have a waiter bring me one then scanned the already crowded dining room for Jane.
The tinkle of ice in glasses provided the background music for the hum of polite conversation. A few members might have been discussing their minister’s sermon. Most weren’t. They were probably talking about golf or football or Bobby’s death.
Mother and Daddy’s preferred table is the one farthest from the buffet. Anyone wishing to interrupt their meal must make an effort—no pretending to breeze by, then happen to stop for a brief chat. Nope, anyone who weaves their way through the tables to the Walfords’ domain has a purpose.
Young Jack McCreary had a purpose.
“Mrs. Russell,” he said, “good morning. It’s nice to see you.”
The waiter arrived with my drink and I sipped. Heaven. “Good morning, Jack.”
He shifted his weight, jammed his hands in the pockets of his khakis, then pulled them out and adjusted his tie. “I…you…that is to say…” He lifted his horn-rimmed glasses off the patrician bridge of his patrician nose, peered through the lenses from a distance of a few inches then put them back where they belonged. Next he pulled at the bangs that covered his forehead.
I arched an eyebrow. No way was I making things easy for the kid who’d tormented Grace when she got her first bra. At the time, Henry claimed it was because Jack liked Grace. It was a guy thing. Easy for Henry to say when he wasn’t ever around to dry
Grace’s embarrassed tears. Humiliate my daughter, make her cry, and I’ll hold it against you for all eternity. It’s an Ellison thing.
Jack rubbed the bottom of his squared chin with the back of his hand, cleared his throat and said, “You found Bobby.”
My fingers tightened around my glass. “I did.”
He shifted his weight again, glanced at the rug then at the ceiling. “Did he say anything?”
I tilted my head slightly to the side. “What would he have said?”
“I don’t know.” One hand disappeared into a pocket, the other pulled at his tie as if it was choking him. “Did he say anything about me?”
Why did he want to know? Had Jack been the one who knocked me down by the gate? I compared the boy standing in front of me to my memory of the person who’d knocked me down. Was Jack too tall? Too thin? Too young?
“It’s just…” He gave up on his collar and stared at his feet.
Perhaps I should have more sympathy. He’d lost his best friend and was obviously hurting. Perhaps, just for today, I could let go of my dislike. I shook my head. “He mentioned a girl.”
A hand landed on Jack’s shoulder. The boy jumped.
“Ellison, lovely to see you. I hope Jack isn’t bothering you.”
Jack winced. Embarrassment? Or was John McCreary squeezing his son’s shoulder hard enough to hurt?
“Jack is never a bother.” I glanced around the quickly filling dining room. “Is Amy with you?”
“Just us boys today.” John chuckled as if he’d said something funny. “Brunch and a round of golf.”
“Please give her my regards.” When Mother said something like that, it was a dismissal. People murmured quick goodbyes and disappeared. When I said it, nothing happened. Neither John nor Jack moved. Instead, they stared at me through their tortoiseshell frames as if they expected me to say something more. I cleared my throat. “I imagine she’s enjoying her day with the girls.”
Jack snorted. Apparently, the idea of spending the day with his sisters wasn’t particularly attractive.
“I imagine she is,” said John. “You’ve had a rough weekend.” He jerked his chin toward my still-bandaged wrist, my sorry-no-golf-for-me-today injury, my ace of trump in Mother’s little game.
I nodded.
“Tragic loss.” John didn’t even pretend to look saddened. “Tragic.”
Jack looked sick. Five-too-many-ham-croquettes-followed-by-a-huge-slice-of-peach-upside-down-cake sick. Miserable sick. Your-best-friend-died sick. He opened his mouth as if he meant to say something, glanced at his father, then snapped it shut.
I stirred my Bloody Mary with a celery stalk. “Bobby was a great kid.”
The muscles around John’s mouth tightened and for a fraction of a second the left corner of his lip curled. “Like I said, tragic loss.”
What the hell was going on?
“John, how lovely to see you.” Mother swept up to the table. “And Jack, it’s nice to see you too.”
Daddy stuck out his hand and John was forced to give up his hold on his son’s shoulder to shake it.
“Where’s Amy?” Mother glanced around the now-crowded dining room.
“She’s at home with the girls.”
Mother smiled as if he’d just described an enormous treat. “How lovely for her.”
She nodded to Daddy and he pulled out a chair for her. When she was settled, he leaned over and kissed my upturned cheek.
Mother opened her napkin and smoothed it onto her lap. “Do give Amy my regards.”
With a lantern-jawed grimace, John McCreary muttered a goodbye and left. He even dragged Jack with him.
“What did they want?” Mother asked.
I shook my head. “No idea.”
“John McCreary’s grandmother and my mother were dear friends. I believe they were in the same bridge group for something like thirty years.” Mother patted my hand to emphasize what she wasn’t saying. Don’t you dare implicate him in something sordid. She might not care for him but our families shared a history.
Mother had me all wrong. I didn’t want to implicate anyone. Finding the girl Bobby loved and telling her what he’d said was my plan. Then I’d return to a normal, uneventful life. A life where I painted and played bridge and tennis and golf. A life where Grace went to school and hung out with her friends and argued with me over the length of her skirts. Bring on the hum-drum, the ordinary, the loads of laundry, the sink full of dishes, the reruns of McMillan & Wife, and Mother’s and my endless tug-of-war over said life. “Thank you again for coming over to CeCe’s yesterday.”
“That poor family…” Mother looked down, shook her head, and tsked.
“Where did you find Howard?” I asked.
“At home. I called to tell him I was coming and the dratted man still kept me waiting on the stoop for a full five minutes. I had to ring the bell at least three or four times. Why do you ask?”
I hid a smile. He’d kept her waiting and she’d only rung three or four times? Not likely. I’d bet a year’s worth of Sunday brunches she’d rung the bell at least nine or ten times. “No reason.” If Mother hadn’t noticed the makeup on his collar, I wasn’t going to point it out. The Standish family had enough problems without rumors of Howard’s infidelity floating around.
“That girl, Alice, is a mess.” She glanced at my father. “Harrington, dear, flag down a waiter. I want a Bloody Mary, spicy with a double shot of vodka.” She returned her attention to me. “It’s not entirely the girl’s fault.” She lowered her voice. “With a mother who drinks like that, there aren’t too many possible outcomes.”
I refrained from commenting. So did Daddy. We were both too fond of breathing to say anything about double shots of vodka.
Mother’s eyes narrowed as if she’d read my thoughts. “Isn’t it a bit late in the season for that dress?”
The dress, a Diane Von Furstenberg wrap, was brand new. “I don’t think so.”
“Really?” She raised a brow. “The color seems awfully summery to me.”
The color fell somewhere between coral and bittersweet. It was perfect for autumn. “I like it.”
“You look lovely, sugar.” Daddy grinned at me. His eyes twinkled as if he found Mother’s snitty mood amusing.
Mother sniffed and looked at her watch. She might have even tapped her foot beneath the cover of the tablecloth.
My insides—vital organs like my heart and stomach and large intestines—began to liquefy. Any moment now, Hunter Tafft would walk through the door, and I wasn’t ready to see him.
At least it was just brunch. Anyone could endure brunch. My bandaged wrist meant I could escape the much longer round of golf. I cleared my throat. “Mother, about golf this afternoon.” I held up my arm. “I think I’m going to have to beg off.”
“Are you sure, dear?” she asked. “It’s a lovely day.”
“I don’t think I could grip a club.”
“Well…” She patted her lips with the edge of her linen napkin. “I imagine you know best.”
That was it? I held up a bandaged wrist and I was off the hook? It was as if she’d offered me a gimme for a twenty foot putt, an occurrence only slightly less likely than hell freezing over. Something was up. It had to be. In my whole life, I’d never been able to subvert Mother’s plans so easily. Maybe Hunter wasn’t coming. “I appreciate your understanding.”
“We’ll reschedule for when you’re feeling better.”
I stared at my wrist. Too easy. Something was rotten in the state of Missouri.
The scent of Aramis overwhelmed the aroma of my coffee. I looked up.
“How are the two prettiest ladies in town?” A man wearing the ugliest plaid sports coat I’ve ever seen—burnt sienna, burnt umber, cadmium deep yellow—stood in front of us.
Mother smiled. Daddy stood and thrus
t out his hand. Quin Marstin shook it. I looked from Mother to Quin to the empty seat at the table. Oh dear Lord.
“We’re so glad you joined us.” Mother’s smile didn’t mean a thing. The expression certainly didn’t touch the rest of her face. Was Quin a last-minute addition because Hunter hadn’t wanted to come? “Please sit.”
Quin sat.
Next to me.
When we were in high school, Garret Hargrove Marstin V, more commonly known as Quin, was the class president, the starting quarterback for a football team that won the state championship and the boy named most likely to succeed. As far as I knew, our senior year was the apex of his life. He’d been young, popular, and almost every girl at school had wanted to date him. The world had changed. Quin hadn’t noticed.
He leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. “Ellison, looking good, babe.”
Babe?
Next to me, Daddy tensed. Across from me, Mother washed away a sour-pickle expression with a deep sip of Bloody Mary. I shifted in my chair, inching as far as possible from Mother’s idea of a set-up. Had she lost her mind? “Thank you,” I murmured.
The man positively reeked of cologne. What’s more, I’d bet, hidden beneath his white shirt, boring tie and that appalling blazer, there was a gold chain with a medallion nestled among his chest hairs. Bleh.
“How’s single life treating you?” Given that I was single because my husband had been murdered, I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. True, Henry had been a cheating low-life and I didn’t exactly mourn his passing, but…He scooted his chair closer to mine. “Chick like you, you don’t have to stay single long.”
Across the table, Mother choked on her drink.
Quin leaned toward me and his Aramis assaulted my nose again.
Maybe his sense of smell was gone. Maybe when he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see the thinning hair. Then again, how could he, hidden beneath a toupee the way it was? Maybe he didn’t notice the thickening waist that threatened to become a paunch. The man remained a legend in his own mind.
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 5
