There was a weighty pause in the conversation. I didn’t know what to say and I suddenly longed for some embroidery or crewel to keep my hands busy.
Finally, her eyes darted over my shoulder to the front door as another handful of women sashayed in. “Drinks are on the sidebar,” she twanged. She pointed to bottles of wine and beer on a metal-and-glass occasional table in the dining room, then added, “Excuse me,” and she hurried past us to greet more of her husband’s potential clients.
I deflated. Maybe I wasn’t such a celebrity, and maybe her enthusiasm was more the wine talking than her desire for a custom dress. She’d probably forget this whole conversation and I’d never have the chance to make her that black taffeta dress.
“So where do we start?” Madelyn asked as I caught up with her. She’d ogled the portable massage chair, but stepped aside to let another woman sit down and put her face in the cradle.
I spotted Fern and Trudy. “The Lafayette sisters,” I said.
Gripping her arm, I dragged her with me, plowing through the chattering women with determination. The wine loosened their tongues plenty and Zinnia James’s arrest was the hot topic. “That poor woman,” a lady with the most ratted-out Texas hair I’d ever seen was saying. “Mortifyin’. Absolutely mortifyin’.” The woman by her side nodded, a sympathetic expression on her face. “I feel for her. She’s never had it easy, and now this.” She shook her head. “I sure do hope she’s holdin’ up all right.”
I did, too. Mostly I was relieved that her friends weren’t throwing her under the bus. They didn’t seem to believe Mrs. James could have killed Macon Vance any more than I did.
The first woman’s lips drew together as if she’d sucked a lemon dry. “Abigail, tell me you are not going to the jail. Why, you simply cannot step foot in that place.”
The woman named Abigail recoiled. “Heaven’s me, no, Cathy. Lawrence would be fit to be tied if I even mentioned it. No. I’ll see her when she gets out.”
“If she gets out,” Cathy said. The rest of their conversation faded away as they drifted off, and my shoulders sank.
And here I’d thought they were her friends. “I’m going to visit her,” I told Madelyn, making up my mind on the spot.
“Who, Mrs. James?”
“Yup. Tomorrow.” I couldn’t sit by and do nothing. I’d go to the source to figure out what sort of garment to make her. But most of all, I’d be her friend.
Chapter 16
Trudy and Fern had gone into the procedure bedroom before I could speak to them. Josie had shown up while we waited, and she, Madelyn, and I hovered near the back room, debating whether to stay. I caught a glimpse of Steven, Sandra, and Libby Allen, and a flash of memory hit me. I’d seen the parents together at Villa Farina the morning Macon Vance had died.
Duane paused in the hallway, lifting his hand in a wave to Libby as Steven guided his wife and daughter toward the front door. Sandra’s head hung low and her shoulders slumped. So coming out hadn’t gotten her mind off the fact that her mother was in jail.
As I wondered if she’d been to the old brick jailhouse, my worry for Mrs. James grew to the size of a ten-gallon hat.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
“Those Lafayette sisters have been in there since the dawn of time,” Madelyn mumbled, tapping her foot.
“Maybe not since the dawn of time,” Josie said, “but for a good twenty minutes.”
Finally, after another five torturously slow minutes, the door was flung open and they sauntered out. Trudy still looked tense, her fingers pressed against the hollows on the inside of her eyes, just like earlier.
“Don’t rub, now,” Dr. Hughes said, coming up behind her. “You don’t want to spread it around.”
Fern and Trudy said good-bye, then shuffled up to us. “You came?” Fern said.
I nodded. “So did you.”
“Trudy’s headache,” she said by way of explanation. “It hit her harder this afternoon after y’all left. All that squinting over the hand-beading. Couldn’t very well send her alone.”
I nodded with approval. Fern was a good sister. “I was just, er, curious,” I said, not wanting to reveal that I hoped to somehow help Mrs. James. The doctor waved at them, nodding, and as Trudy walked by she held her head high, but her lower lip quivered, from the pain, I guessed.
She didn’t look all that different. Same crow’s-feet. Same wrinkled forehead. Same vertical lines between the brows. If the Botox helped her wrinkles, too, it hadn’t worked yet.
“People pay for that?” Madelyn whispered to Josie and me.
“They do. And a pretty penny, too,” Josie whispered back. “My hairdresser gets it done. She pays twelve dollars a unit.”
Madelyn looked fascinated, her eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “How many units does it take?”
“Twenty-five for her crow’s-feet.”
Bless my soul. That was a whole lotta money to get rid of a few lines for a few months.
“Step right in, little ladies!” Buckley Hughes’s voice boomed at us.
“No, no.” I waved my hands, taking a step back, wanting to go talk to Trudy and Fern.
“Harlow.” The doctor took my hand and pulled me into the room. Josie and Madelyn were on my heels.
“It’s perfectly safe,” the doctor said, but my stomach clenched at the sight of the syringes and vials.
“Really, no,” I said, trying to be polite. There was no way I was forking over hundreds of dollars to minimize my wrinkles. And if I ever did, it would be in a sterilized doctor’s office. I subscribed to Meemaw’s philosophy that I’d earned every single one of them and they were a testament to my years. Plus, I’d just seen on Trudy that it didn’t work.
“I was wondering, though…” I decided to just ask what I wanted to know down deep. “I heard that my great-grandmother came to some of your parties. Did she…” I swallowed, still hardly believing it could be true. “Did she get any treatments? Loretta Mae Cassidy,” I added, picking up a vial with a salmon-colored lid and label from the stainless steel medical table and turning it over in my hands. “That was my great-grandmother.”
“’Course. I knew Loretta Mae pretty well. She was a talker, that one. Always with the questions and the predictions and the stories about Bliss.” The doctor perched on the edge of his chair, stroking his clean-shaven chin. “Lots of women come on over to the parties but never get a treatment. Far as I know, Loretta Mae didn’t get anythin’ done. Not by me, anyway.”
I put down the vial as Madelyn and Josie crowded behind me. “Are you sure? Fern and Trudy Lafayette seemed to think she’d had some work done, but I… I just have a hard time believing that.”
He paused for the quickest beat, then got up and strode around us to the door. “Anna?” He moved a few steps into the hallway and called again.
His wife appeared a moment later. His voice was too low to hear, but he came back into the room after a minute, shaking his head. Anna followed him.
“My husband’s right,” she said, her accent thicker than a pot of baked beans. “Loretta Mae came around every now and again, but she never got any treatments done.” Her words were a little slurred. Her wineglass was full again, I noticed. Flowing drinks didn’t seem like a good idea at a cosmetics party. Impaired decision making, and all. Could a woman really know what she was giving consent for if she couldn’t think straight? I glanced around the room. No Shiners or Merlot for Dr. Hughes, thankfully. At least if he aimed for a woman’s forehead with his syringe, he wouldn’t miss.
The doctor leaned against the doorjamb, one arm folded over his chest, the other cocked at the elbow, his finger tapping his chin as he thought. “Now, she did come in and talk to me about it once or twice,” he said. “Seems to me we spent more time chatting about everything else under the sun, though. She was skittish, if I recall, but whenever I brought up the procedure, she changed the subject to her quilts, her daughter’s goats, my life, Will next door… you. Anything, really. I just
figured she was lonely and wanted to talk.”
Lonely? Skittish? Loretta Mae? That didn’t sound right. Then again, if she’d been considering going against one of her own personal life philosophies, I could see why she would have been on edge. “She talked about me?”
He cupped his chin, his thumb joining the tapping rhythm. “She couldn’t wait to have you back home, although…” He paused, looking up at the ceiling as if his memories were stored there.
“Yes?” I didn’t know what insight a doctor who’d barely known Meemaw could give me, but I’d take any scrap he threw.
“She seemed to be worried about something. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and it seemed to me like she was keeping something under wraps.”
“Secrets,” Anna Hughes blurted. “Everyone’s always keeping secrets, aren’t they, honey?” Her ankle buckled and she stumbled, her wine sloshing over the sides of her glass.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said as her husband took her by the elbow to help her stand, gently taking her wineglass from her and putting it down next to a collection of Botox boxes.
“Anna,” he said, coaxing her into the floral armchair in the corner.
Her eyes were glazed, but she pressed her lips together, put her fingers to them, and turned an invisible key.
Even though she’d zipped her lips, her words stayed with me. Meemaw had definitely been keeping things on the down low. From the cell phone conversation Gina had overheard at the café, it seemed Macon Vance had had a secret. Mrs. James herself had been arrested. If I was wrong about her, then her secret was that she’d killed the man. Anna Hughes would probably want her drinking tonight to be kept a secret. The list went on and on. I’d just never thought Meemaw would keep things buckled up tight under her rhinestone belt, but it seemed she had.
There was a knock on the doorjamb. “Is it my turn?” a woman from the party asked. If she had wrinkles, they were microscopic. She had to be a regular… and addicted.
The doctor held up his hand. “One minute, Carrie Ann.”
“Sorry. We’ll get out of your way,” I said, ushering Josie and Madelyn back into the hallway as Buckley whispered in his wife’s ear.
“See you around, ladies. Thanks for coming by.”
Anna met my eyes. “Yeah, thanks for comin’ by, y’all. Y’all have a good night, ya hear?”
We said our good-byes and skirted around Carrie Ann, who waited patiently for her treatment.
“Quick,” Josie said with a hiss, “before they ply us with alcohol and make us get it done.” She started down the hall, but we all turned at a sharp sound. Dr. Hughes hurried up behind us, snapping his fingers again. “I just remembered something,” he said, grinning big and wide.
Josie, Madelyn, and I looked up expectantly. “What?” we all said at once.
“She said that when her great-granddaughter came home—you, I assume—”
I nodded, holding my breath for the great revelation about Meemaw.
“Right. She said that when you came home, things in Bliss would change. Even for me, she said. For everyone. Wrongs would be righted. Things would settle and be like they were supposed to be. Then she mentioned something about a wedding.”
Josie’s wedding.
At that we left Buckley to his work, escaping with more questions than answers.
An hour later, as I carefully stitched the torn section of the replica gown back at home, I thought about the Cassidy charms. They came with a checks and balances system. For everything Meemaw made happen, someone else lost something they’d wanted. There had to be bad with the good. If I made the dress I had in mind for Mrs. James, would there be a consequence for someone else? It was a question I couldn’t answer.
I moved on to the hem of Libby’s dress, slip-stitching it, the length of every stitch painstakingly precise. It was tedious, but allowed me time to think. But after another hour, I still couldn’t come up with a reason why Mrs. James would be involved in Macon Vance’s murder, or why I was even getting involved. Finally, I wandered to the kitchen in search of corn bread. And fried okra. A Southern woman’s sustenance.
Chapter 17
With my stomach full of fried okra and corn bread and the kitchen cleaned up, I headed back toward my workroom. As I stepped out of the kitchen and into the little dining room, the front door swung open and a strong breeze ruffled my hair. Mama burst into Buttons & Bows with a potted plant under one arm. Typical.
At the very same moment, Nana threw open the Dutch door in the kitchen, tossed her Crocs off, closed the door on Thelma Louise with an admonishment to stay put, and turned to me. “Harlow Jane,” they both said at exactly the same time, with the exact same Southern drawl, and just like that, the whole crazy situation was back in my head, front and center.
I looked from Mama to Nana. This was my future. Blue jeans. Cowgirl shirts. And perfect timing. My words tumbled out with lightning speed. “I needed you. How did you know? I have to make these dresses, but Mrs. James is in jail and your boyfriend thinks she killed the golf pro, and I’ve been calling for Meemaw but she won’t talk to me, and… and… and…” All my Southern strength faded as I sank onto the wood steps at the base of the staircase.
Nana took one long look at me, put her hands on her hips, and turned to face the front room of Buttons & Bows. Nobody messed around with Coleta Cassidy. “Loretta Mae Cassidy,” she said to the room at large, her voice as sharp as cactus thorn. “Enough of these games. I know you can hear me. You just get on out here and show yourself. You’re causing our girl here quite a bit of turmoil with your antics.”
And just like that, a rush of warm air blew past me, leaving a shimmery trail in its wake. Meemaw was back. Not that she’d ever left, because I was quite sure she hadn’t.
“Meemaw,” Nana said again, her tone sharp and annoyed. “You brought Harlow back. You got what you wanted. She’s here, but now it’s time to clear some things up.”
The pipes upstairs groaned and something clanked. It sounded like a wrench being hit against a metal drum. I dropped my hands and snapped my head up. This wasn’t my feisty great-grandmother. This was a haunting.
But Nana wasn’t about to be intimidated by a bunch of ghostly noises. “Stop that,” she barked. And everything went utterly silent.
“What’s happening?” I whispered, standing and moving toward Mama.
“This is your house and you have work to do,” Mama said. “We’re here to settle Loretta Mae down and get you some peace,” she said as she reached behind her to close and lock the door.
I pointed to the lavender plant she carried. “What’s that for?”
“I work with my strengths. Lavender promotes cooperation, love—of course I’m not using it for that right now—and harmony. I’m thinkin’ Meemaw’s a hair unsettled in her transitional state.”
I’d used my Scarlett O’Hara trick of not thinking about the fact that I’d be a ghost someday if what Mama and Nana said was true, but now all that anxiety crashed through me again. All the more reason I couldn’t possibly have a relationship with Will and get married anytime soon. Or a relationship with anyone else for that matter. I was almost a… a… a witch and just how was I supposed to keep that quiet? “That’s good,” I said, “because I could sure use some peace and harmony. Look at that gown.” I lifted my chin toward the workroom and to Libby’s dress, which I’d put on the pulley contraption. “And I’m working on one for Gracie Flores, now, too.”
“We’re the cavalry, darlin’,” Nana said. “You just have to holler and we’ll come a-runnin’. And sometimes we come a-runnin’ even if you don’t holler.”
Like now. Thank God for family. “How will lavender help?”
“I’m leaving this plant here. Now, you take care of it, you hear?” Mama walked past me and set it in the center of the dining table right across from my little computer table, the lavender blooms fragrant and abundant.
“I don’t have a green thumb—”
“But I do.” Little bit of
an understatement, but I let it go. “It’ll be fine.” As if in response to her words, the stalks shimmied and swayed. The tiny flowers turned from a light to a vibrant royal purple.
I peaked out the window and sure enough, a cluster of weeds had grown in the flower bed by the front gate. “I’ll pull them as I leave,” Mama said, looking over my shoulder. “You just work on that dress.”
The shimmering trail that had lingered in the air gathered together as if someone were patting biscuit dough into a mound before flattening it out to cut into rounds. It began to spin, like a funnel cloud gathering strength; then, just like last time, we could suddenly see the faint image of a person—of Meemaw—take shape. Slowly, like steam evaporating from a mirror after a hot shower, she became clearer. I could make out details. First her blue jeans, then the snap buttons of her plaid cowgirl shirt. Next, the pointed toes of her cowboy boots, and finally, the streak in her hair, more pronounced than I remembered it being, but maybe being a ghost’ll do that to a person.
I wasn’t going to let the moment slip by again like it had last time. I wanted a hug. To feel her warmth. The touch of her hand against my cheek. I rushed forward, spreading my arms wide. Closed them around her. And poof! Like a bubble popping, she was gone and I was hugging myself.
A split second later, I felt a shift in the air behind me. Mama inhaled sharply, and I whipped around to see Meemaw’s wraithlike figure appear next to the armoire we’d moved down from the attic.
“Enough of the cat and mouse,” Nana said, moving toward Meemaw’s ghost with the stealth of a cat. “Show yourself.”
The command worked. Meemaw’s form shimmied, translucent and airy, then started to take shape again. Just like before, she seemed to turn from nothingness to something almost tangible. But this time I stayed put, hardly daring to breathe, let alone try to touch her again.
Mama hurried back to the lavender plant, closed her hand around one stalk, and slid it down over the purple buds. A few scattered onto the table, but the rest were cupped in her hand. A moment later, she sprinkled them right onto Meemaw. The petals sunk into her misty form before falling to the ground, but my great-grandmother didn’t evaporate. She didn’t levitate. She didn’t budge. It was as if the lavender rooted her to the spot, like glue on the base of a figurine.
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