She was glad, no denying it. Maybe she should just change places. Move into Marti’s townhouse on the river during the convention and let her have the cottage, let her have Emily, let her welcome Roberta. Of course, if she ran off like that, she suspected that any residual respect and affection Emily might somehow still have for her would dry up in a flash.
Terry shifted in his chair, grimacing as he tried one position after another. Leigh looked up, leaned forward from the chair, and pushed the footstool toward him. He put both feet on it and sighed as he at last settled comfortably. “Yes, a very nice girl. Pretty as her mother. Bit evasive about her hometown and life, though. I suppose that’s to be expected. She didn’t want to talk about your ex in front of you. Sorry if I pushed into uncomfortable territory. I know how the sting of divorce lingers, even when the end of a marriage brings relief.”
“I don’t think the end of my marriage brought relief to anyone but my mother-in-law. Terry, I had an idea for the chapter on your time in India.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Rob and Sylvia visited me in India. Once I was confirmed by the Senate and didn’t need to pretend I was a perfect human being, my second wife divorced me. The Coopers came out to hold my hand. Oh, we had fun. Nothing like good friends to help you through the dark patches. Sylvia…I’ve got a picture of her in a sari. You should see it.” He sat back. “Ha! There’s the real story of my life, and I won’t let you include it. Still, you need to see the picture. You need to see lots of pictures, Leigh.”
“You’ve given me quite a few. They’ve been helpful.”
He pointed toward the bookcase. “Third shelf from the bottom. Second row. Green album.”
Several loose photos slipped out as she jimmied the fat album out of the tightly wedged books on the shelf. She handed the loose pictures to Terry and set the album on his lap. He smiled. “This one was taken on Delia’s ninth birthday. I remember because I’d just married Teresa and she was trying to improve her position as stepmother with a fabulous gift. Look at the size of that dollhouse! Her ploy didn’t work; she and the girls never got along. I certainly picked a bitch that time. She was the only one of my wives who wasn’t nice, and the only one who didn’t really mind that I had other women from time to time. What’s that tell you?”
“That she probably didn’t love you, and the others did.”
He nodded. “She was in it for the prestige and contacts, that’s for sure. Left me for a Swiss banker who was tight with all the Saudi oil princes. Traded up, that’s what Teresa did.” He flipped though the pages of the album.
“Terry, I’d love to see Sylvia’s picture, but could you perhaps find it later? I’d like to finish the India chapter today and I’m having trouble with the chronology.”
A page came loose in his hand and he swore roughly. He glanced up, pinning her with an angry scowl. “I bet if it was a picture of that writer you’d be interested. Then you’d have something else to share with Peach Wickham so you can cozy up, stake your claim in the empire.”
They stared at each other. Then Leigh said, “I haven’t shown Peach anything but the cottage, Terry. I haven’t seen her in a week, and with luck it will be a long time before I see her again. Yes, I may need her to hire me someday, but right now I am writing your book.”
“And that makes me your boss and I say you need to see the picture. It’s one we can use in the book and we will. My memory of Sylvia in India is not just a pathetic, lovesick old man’s daydream. You need to understand that within a few hours of arriving, Sylvia was demanding we get out of the embassy and see the country. I’d never lived anywhere but the US until then, and she kicked me in the ass and showed me how to explore and love new places. I turned out to be a damn fine ambassador, Leigh. I’ve been awarded every honor the Indian government can bestow on a foreigner and that wouldn’t have happened without her. Now, where the hell is the photo?”
The study door opened. No doubt Geneva’s radar had sensed his agitation and she’d hurried in to give Leigh the evil eye and calm him down.
Geneva tipped her head, beckoning. Leigh murmured, “Back in a minute,” and followed the young woman out of the room. She would not apologize. Not this time. She’d been hired to write a book and time was short and Terry was drifting further and further into a gray zone of unreliable memory and longing. She had to keep him focused and—“Geneva, what’s wrong?”
The young woman leaned against the wall in the dark hallway. She whispered, “I’m bleeding and cramping bad. I just called the doctor and she wants me to go to the emergency room and the nearest hospital’s twenty miles away. It’s months too soon, Leigh. What’s going to happen?”
*
Marti and Emily were watching All My Children in the cottage.
“Your TV?” she asked Marti.
“I took it from the boys’ room at Hank’s. I thought Emily might want it.”
“She’s obsessed with Susan Lucci,” Emily said.
“I admit it,” Marti said. “Twenty years now. I promised Peach I’d bring Emily down to the museum to help assemble welcome folders for the convention, but she’ll just have to be late because I can’t miss—Leigh, what’s wrong? The old man?”
“Do you still remember how to handle a baby?”
“I should hope so. Why?”
“Geneva’s bleeding. Her mother’s in Texas visiting an aunt and her best friend’s up in Red Wing, housebound with three kids. I’m taking her to the hospital.”
Marti stole a last look at the screen as Lucci slapped another woman, then she turned it off. “Bleeding at seven months isn’t good. Of course I’ll watch the little boy.”
“What about him?” Emily said. “I mean, if he needs help with the bathroom and stuff? He looked kind of feeble.”
A car horn bleated. Leigh shouldered her purse. “Call Phil Chesney.”
*
“Are you her mother?”
“Does she look like she could be my mother?” Geneva snapped at the triage nurse. “And thank god for all of us that she isn’t, because my mother would be yelling up a storm at me for even being pregnant and I don’t want any of you distracted from what you’ve got to do.”
There wasn’t much they could do. The baby girl was stillborn.
“I didn’t want this,” Geneva said between sobs when the flurry of the delivery had calmed and they were alone with the baby.
“Of course not,” Leigh murmured. She felt foolish and useless, hesitant to even look at the still bundle of blankets the nurse had placed in Geneva’s arms.
“I didn’t want to be pregnant again, but I didn’t want this either. She’s so tiny. Please hold her too, Leigh,” Geneva whispered. “I want someone else to have held her before they take her away.”
Leigh held the baby while Geneva tightly gripped one of her daughter’s tiny limp hands.
Geneva’s friend finally arrived that evening and they collapsed in each other’s arms. “You don’t need me here,” Leigh said.
Geneva said, “Please go tell Terry. He shouldn’t hear this by phone.”
*
It was nearly nine when she arrived back in Pepin. Marti and Emily were in the kitchen of the big house with Kate, who was putting a pan to soak in the sink. Leigh told them the news, and for a long time there was no sound, until Kate released a sigh. “Time for me to go,” she said softly.
Marti said, “I knew I could handle the little boy, Leigh, but when it got time for supper I panicked. Terry wouldn’t eat Chinese, so I called Kate at the library and when she was off work she came to bail us out and cook something.”
“Which I didn’t have to do,” Kate said. “There must be a year’s worth of meals in the freezer. I remembered he loved meatloaf, and Geneva had one ready to defrost and pop in the oven.”
Leigh said, “Where’s Tucker?”
“The boys are in the study.”
“I’ll bunk here tonight,” said Leigh. “I’ll need to watch Tucker.”
“And watch Phil
too?” said Emily. “He’s really nice. Don’t screw this up, Mom.”
Leigh didn’t know if it was exhaustion, grief, or rage that showed on her face when she turned to her daughter, but she knew from the way Emily recoiled that something was evident.
Marti stepped forward, putting a hand on Emily. “We’ll head back to the cottage, Leigh. I’ll stay with Emily if she wants the company, and you take care of the boys.”
Tucker was sitting on a blanket on the rug in the study, examining blocks one by one and yawning broadly. Terry slept in his chair, and Phil sat across from him, reading a magazine. He and Tucker both looked up when she entered. Tucker lifted his arms.
After she’d picked him up, he studied her face carefully for a moment, then looked over her shoulder toward the door before dropping his head against Leigh’s shoulder and digging a fist into an eye.
She told Phil about the baby girl. He reached for Tucker, who happily fell over into his arms, eyes closed tightly. “I’ll put him to bed.”
She sat and watched Terry. Finally he woke. He focused, saw Leigh, and was immediately alert. “Well?”
“A baby girl, stillborn.”
He doubled over and his head fell into his hands. “Oh, how hard that must be for a woman. Oh, Leigh, I should go see her. Oh, sweet Geneva. This shouldn’t be happening to her.”
He quieted and sat for several minutes, head resting in his hands. When he finally looked up tears had spilled down his cheeks.
“Are you the father, Terry?”
He pressed the back of hand against each cheek. “Yes. No. The boy, I think. We haven’t…not since…” He looked toward the window. “She insists he’s not my son. I think she went and got pregnant the second time just to emphasize the point.”
“I doubt that.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care what she says. I’ve made arrangements, I want you to know that. She’ll not be left homeless and penniless when I’m gone. And I’ve been smart about it. My kids won’t have an inch of ground to stand on to fight her for what I’ve left her. My grandfather wasn’t the only one who could be tricky with trusts.”
“I suppose this is something else that won’t go in the book.”
“Not unless Geneva changes her story. I don’t care what you think of me, Leigh, but don’t you be hard on her. If I thought you felt that way, I’d toss you out, and you know how much this book means to me. Don’t be hard on her.”
“Geneva’s heart is broken, Terry. That’s all I care about.”
He rose stiffly. He braced himself on the back of his chair with one hand, then chopped the air with the other. “Goodnight. Thanks for all you’ve done today.”
“May I help you up the stairs?”
“I can manage.”
The cane Geneva had recently persuaded him to use thumped out his slow progress down the hallway. She was about to follow and insist on accompanying him when she heard Phil. The men’s voices mingled, then faded as they both went upstairs.
The few nights they’d worked late together Terry had always offered a glass of brandy when they finally finished. Leigh eyed the decanter on the sideboard. No reason not to offer herself one. She’d earned it tonight. Not that accompanying Geneva through her nightmare was extra duty. No, the hundred-dollar drink she’d just poured into the glass was compensation for sitting on one more secret, for shaving off more of the truth from Terry Bancroft’s story.
Shaving? Hell. Hiding the identity of a child was more like wielding a chainsaw.
A photo lay on the table by his chair. So he’d found it. The picture was a faded color snapshot, a square one taken with the Instamatics so popular when she was young. It showed Terry and another man, both of them in suits, standing on either side of a woman in a blue sari. The woman’s arms were slipped through both men’s elbows, but she was looking at and laughing with the man who wasn’t Terry. So this was Sylvia.
Large dark eyes, thick hair loosely piled and held in place with a scarf, voluptuous curves under the modest eastern dress. A better-fed, prettier Susan Lucci. Leigh shook her head. No, that’s not what seemed familiar.
“Sweet mother of god,” she whispered as she studied the photo and recognized what she was seeing.
Geneva had liquid dark eyes, luxurious brown hair, long legs, strong arms, full breasts. Sweet, heartbroken, Geneva—doppelganger and substitute for the unattainable Sylvia.
“Sad night.” Phil stood in the doorway.
Leigh set the photo down. “Yes. Thank you for helping out.”
“No problem. It was nice to visit with Terry again, even though he was preoccupied. Tucker crashed pretty fast. He’s an adaptable little guy and didn’t seem to mind being handled by strangers as long as he could keep Terry in sight. I told Terry I’d be near. There’s a sofa in his room and I’ll sleep there. He liked that idea. He seemed pretty agitated.”
“I can listen for Tucker.” Leigh reached for the handset of the baby intercom on the floor. “I’ll sleep in here.”
“I like your daughter, Leigh. She’s a very skilled and aggressive poker player.”
“I had no idea, but I’m not surprised; so was her father. Did she clean you out?”
“No, but Kate and Marti might not play with her again. I know things are probably different with Emily here, but are we still on for a Thursday night sometime?”
“Please, yes. Soon.”
They both laughed. She was glad the room was lit by only a single lamp, certain her middle-age blush would be obvious. “Phil, what do you say…”
Oh god, those hands. What do you say we both listen for our charges from Geneva’s bed?
“Yes?”
Was he waiting for an invitation? Why not give one?
What would Marti do?
Leigh smiled. “What do you say that the first one up makes a pot of strong coffee?”
He nodded. “Good night, Leigh.”
Part Three
1.
They came in private cars, rental cars, chartered buses, and the regular shuttle from the Twin Cities airport two hours away. They came in large groups, small groups, pairs, alone. They formed long lines and clusters in motel lobbies, restaurants, the library, the town’s historical society, the riverfront park, the museum by the Dairy Queen. The convention headquarters—the fellowship hall of the Methodist Church—was open for the duration fifteen hours a day, coffee always on. Dee’s Café now opened at seven a.m.
Two women from Australia rented a red convertible at the airport and arrived in Pepin with music blaring and scarves streaming. Their arrival was witnessed by several women who were waiting to get into the Little Girl Museum, and they immediately dubbed the new arrivals “the perfectly awful girls,” a phrase used in the final book of the series (Little Girl Gone) to describe three brazen visiting showgirls who almost led one of Maud’s innocent male friends astray.
The Little Girls brought their daughters. Young girls wearing tiaras and beautifully designed and carefully crafted period dresses were displayed and admired wherever they appeared. Teenagers—reluctant, eager, cheerful, sullen—eyed each other silently.
A few women were on solo pilgrimage, and they resisted the chatter and laughter of the groups, choosing to seek out and explore the Little Girl landmarks on their own. They could be seen trudging the streets and the river walk. Daypacks, floppy hats, European sandals, expectations.
There were not many men. Whenever one appeared he was instantly assessed: a good-sport husband, a children’s literature specialist, an obsessed fan of the TV show or one devoted to Petra Sinclair.
They started showing up at the cottage.
“Mom, another one got by the guard and is coming out of the trees,” Emily called from the brown chair where she was reading.
Leigh closed her computer. “What do you say we go to Wal-Mart and buy some pellet guns?”
“Good idea. I made sharpshooter at summer camp three years ago. Want me to handle this one?”
“No. Your lang
uage got a little rough the last time.”
“But it worked. This one looks grumpy. Oh-oh—camera alert.”
They quickly pulled closed the window curtains, triggering a stream of invective from the thwarted invader. “Christ!” she shouted, “just open the damn curtains!”
“Emily,” Leigh said, “I’ve changed my mind; this one is for you.”
*
“I warned you.” Terry pointed to the coffee pot. Leigh refilled his cup and set it down on the side table. He stared at it a moment, then rubbed his eyes. “I keep thinking it has to end sometime, but no. Year after year, people still come here to touch the hem of that writer.”
“That writer seems to have inspired a lot of women and a range of conversation.” She pulled a paper from the outer pocket of her backpack. “Listen to these conference sessions. ‘Ida May’s Literary Heirs: A survey of current innovators in children’s literature.’ ‘Build Your Own Cottage: A workshop in dollhouse and miniature construction.’ ‘Welcome, All: Why minorities feel at home in Maud’s River Valley.’” She tapped the paper. “These women must have boundless energy. Besides attending the various break-out sessions they can participate in Tai Chi on the museum lawn every morning, paddle an authentic dugout canoe, and attend twice-daily choir practice, where, according to this, they’ll ‘learn and sing all the songs mentioned in the books in preparation for a performance at the closing ceremony.’ Huh. I wonder if the choir practice will be as well attended as the nightly Little Girl Karaoke down at Dee’s that she and Kate are running all this week. This convention doesn’t even start until tomorrow and they’ve been sneaking in to see the cottage for two days now. I hate to imagine what it would be like if you hadn’t hired security. Even so, every few hours another one gets past the guard. Emily’s very good at dealing with them.”
“When’s she coming back, Leigh? It’s been a week. I miss the boy. This is their home, they should be here. She’s so lovely, isn’t she?”
Leigh put down the convention schedule. “Yes, Geneva’s a beautiful young woman.”
Venom and the River Page 13
