Belle Pointe

by Karen Young

  “Fashion tastes can be a generational thing,” Anne suggested, seeking a reply that wouldn’t set them at odds at the outset. “I remember trying to convince my mom to let me have a tattoo when I was about fifteen. I just couldn’t understand why she refused to let me do it. It was going to be a butterfly…” With a smile, Anne lifted her hair and pointed. “…right here. Now I’m truly grateful that she put her foot down. Wouldn’t it look ridiculous when I’m all dressed up for a formal event and there’s an insect on my neck?”

  “I think it would be way cool.” Paige lifted her clingy little T-shirt beneath the heavy black coat and bared her tummy. Curling around her navel, which had a silver ring in it, was a snake.

  “Oops.” Anne covered her mouth to hide her dismay. “Guess your mom didn’t put her foot down fast enough, huh?”

  Paige gave another disgusted huff. “I don’t know why Claire is so paranoid about my behavior considering what a real hellion she was at fourteen.”

  Anne wondered if Claire knew Paige referred to her by her first name. “How many tattoos does she have?”

  “None. And if she had done it, my dad would have forced her to remove it. He doesn’t want any of us to have an original thought or do anything without consulting him.”

  “Let me guess. He takes exception to…ah, the way you dress?”

  “It drives him wild. But at least I have the guts to do stuff out in the open, which Claire could never get up the gumption to do.”

  “For example…” Anne held her breath, not having a clue what the girl would say next.

  “Well, she objects to me smoking a few cigarettes,” Paige continued, “while she goes through a pack a day.”

  Bad grades, smoking, tattoos, body piercing and what else, Anne wondered, feeling sympathy for “the parents.” “Maybe she’s trying to help you avoid making the mistakes she made.”

  “And maybe when she quits, I might listen. And how about Dad throwing away those smelly cigars? No way, Jose. Anything he does is fine.” Paige threw open a door revealing steep stairs. “The archives and stuff are down here,” she said, taking the stairs with surprising grace in her clunky boots. “Over there on those shelves is the stuff I’m working on that came from that old professor who croaked. Good luck trying to figure out the rest of what’s in here.”

  Along with the archival material boxed and stacked to the ceiling, pictures of significant happenings in Tallulah lined the walls of the long and narrow room. The light was bad, air circulation poor and the dust thick enough to clog the sinuses. Anne didn’t wonder that Paige was grumpy if she spent much time alone down here.

  Studying the wall of pictures, she instantly recognized a photo of John Whitaker posing with a past governor. This was definitely the place to fill in the gaps about Buck’s family before interviewing Pearce.

  Paige looked around, wrinkling her nose. “Pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  “I would say that we have our work cut out for us,” Anne said. “We’ll just think of it as a treasure hunt.”

  “Huh?”

  “Going by these photographs, there’s probably oodles of stuff about your dad’s family here…and since I married into it, I’m pretty curious, too.”

  Paige looked around as if viewing the place from a different perspective. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” Anne looked at her, expecting a question about the archives.

  “What’s it like being married to somebody like Uncle Buck? I mean, besides being famous and the Jacks star pitcher, he’s like, really hot. Isn’t it exciting just being his wife and getting to be with him every single day?”

  Anne smiled. “Sounds like you see that as a wonderful life.”

  “Well, sure. At school, all the boys want to be like Uncle Buck. They want to know all about him. I get a lot of that because I’m his niece.” She made a face. “I know it’s not about me.”

  “But you do like baseball?”

  “Sure, don’t you?”

  “I’ll tell you a secret. Just because I’m married to a man who plays baseball doesn’t mean that I have to love the game, too.”

  “But you go to the games. I see you on TV when they show special people in the stands, wives and all.”

  “I go because Buck’s fans expect to see his wife at the games. And besides, I’ve learned to appreciate many aspects of baseball. But when I met Buck, it was a different story. I was a reporter and I knew next to nothing about sports. I wrote human interest pieces for the features section of the paper.”

  “Then how did you ever meet him?”

  “I was assigned to cover a Special Olympics event and Buck was one of the athletes scheduled to appear. I was interested in meeting him, not because I cared anything about baseball, but because I knew he was from Tallulah, Mississippi.”

  Paige wrinkled her nose, puzzled. “Why did that matter? This place is, like, nowhere, the end of the universe.”

  “Oh, I think many people would argue with you there, my dad, for one. I grew up hearing him talk about the Mississippi Delta. The civil rights movement interested him, so when he came down with a PBS crew from Boston, what he saw made such an impact that he wrote a book about it.”

  “I know about the book. We had to read it in honors English.”

  “Did you like it?”

  Paige nodded. “It was, like, way cool. All the stuff that happened back then seems like something out of a bad movie. So, what happened when you met Uncle Buck that day? Was it love at first sight?”

  Anne’s gaze shifted from the young girl’s face to the gold band on her finger. Buck had bought her a large yellow diamond after signing his first million-dollar contract in St. Louis but it was in the wall safe back in St. Louis. Even in her disillusionment, she couldn’t bring herself to take off her wedding band. “I don’t know if it was love at first sight, but it was certainly something very powerful.”

  “Like a wild crush or something, huh?”

  Smiling, she looked at Paige. “Have you ever had a wild crush?”

  Paige shrugged. “Not really, but I can understand how it would happen, especially if the boy was like Uncle Buck. Which is impossible because there’s nobody at school like Uncle Buck. He is so cool. I think you’re just about the luckiest woman in the world to be married to him.”

  Anne’s opportunity to interview Pearce came sooner than expected. When it was time for Paige to leave that day, it was her father, not Claire, who came to pick her up. When Anne asked if he had time to answer a few questions for an article in the Spectator, he was more than ready to make time.

  “Before we get started,” he said, making himself comfortable in front of her newly assigned desk, “tell me, where the hell is Buck? Nobody’s home at the Marshes’, he’s not picking up his phone messages, nobody’s seen him. Man, I need to talk to him.”

  Anne sighed. Apparently Victoria hadn’t yet filled Pearce in. “He’s not here. The Jacks are concerned about his injury. He’s undergoing pretty intensive physical therapy in St. Louis.”

  “How long are we talking here?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? It was a serious injury. He could be out for the season.”

  He studied her thoughtfully. “And you’re here…working for your daddy?” He let his eyes roam around the office. “What does Buck think about that?”

  She crossed her legs and gave him a speaking look. “In this interview, I ask the questions, Pearce.”

  “O-kaaay…” He studied her, narrow-eyed, letting her know he guessed interesting things were going on in his brother’s marriage, but he wouldn’t press her…for now. “So, where do you want to start? The voters know my background, but it won’t hurt to remind them that we Whitakers go back five generations here.”

  Anne wished for a tape recorder, but since she’d occupied the tiny office for less than half a day, she hadn’t collected supplies, not even a notepad. At least there was a computer, albeit an aging one. She grabbed a few sheets of paper from the printer
and prepared to take notes. “I have a standard list of questions that I use when interviewing,” she told him, “but don’t worry, I won’t use everything we discuss. It just helps to know as much about an individual as possible.”

  “Well, sweetheart, you know about all anybody could know about me,” he said, propping an ankle on his knee. “We’re family, aren’t we?”

  “What I meant was this, Pearce. To decide how to shape the piece that eventually emerges, some of my questions that may strike you as personal, but most of that won’t show up in print.” She gave him a professional smile. “Okay?”

  With the survival instincts of most good politicians, he took a while to consider the implications of that. “Hmm, I’m getting a little nervous.” He didn’t look nervous. Instead he looked relaxed and confident. Leaning back, he reached inside his jacket and brought out a cigar. “Do you mind if I light this?”

  She glanced at the wall where a No Smoking sign was posted and clearly visible. “I’m new here at the Spectator,” she reminded him, “but it appears there’s a no smoking policy.”

  “I sure wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with your boss,” he said, winking at her as he tucked the cigar back in his pocket.

  “Thank you,” she replied dryly. With her pen poised, she asked, “What person do you most admire, living or dead?”

  He laughed and shook his finger at her playfully. “Looking to trip me up, aren’t you? If I say George Washington, I alienate half of the voters in the district. If I say Martin Luther King, I alienate the other half. Can’t win for losing.”

  “I’m not looking to trip you up, Pearce. Knowing whom you admire gives me an idea of your value system.”

  “I’ll match my value system with my opponent’s any day,” he said darkly, suddenly losing all trace of good humor.

  “Your opponent,” Anne said, her pen flying across the paper. “That would be Jack Breedlove.”

  He shifted in his chair, both feet now on the floor. “He’s the chief of police…at the moment. Have you ever known an honest cop?”

  “It sounds as if you’re accusing Mr. Breedlove of something illegal. Would you care to be specific?”

  He looked at her notepad and swore under his breath. “Erase that, sweetheart. It’s off the record. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  She made a mark on the paper. “Do you call every woman you talk to ‘sweetheart’?”

  He winked at her again. “No, only the pretty ones.”

  She made another note and without looking up asked, “What made you decide to run for the state senate?”

  “Hey, wait a minute. I’m kidding. You put that in the article and every feminist in Mississippi will turn out against me.”

  She put her pen down and folded her hands on top of the desk. “Okay, if you act as if you’re taking this interview seriously, I’ll do the same.”

  “Agreed. So…let’s start with why I think my opponent’s qualifications to hold the office are pitiful.”

  She hid a smile. He was determined to control the interview and it suited her to let him think he was doing just that…for now. She could hardly wait to write up her notes and put in a call to his “pitiful” opponent.

  The ring of his cell phone woke Buck from a half doze. Groggily, he stared at the caller ID. His mind cleared instantly upon seeing the area code for Mississippi. His wife…finally. “Anne?”

  “No, Buck,” Victoria Whitaker replied. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Ma. Hey.” He cleared his throat and settled back in the chair. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How’s that knee coming along?”

  “I can’t complain.” Between his mother and Pearce, he’d received more phone calls from Mississippi in the last few days than he had in the past five years. “Everything okay there?”

  “We’re in the throes of spring planting, as you know. Up early, working late. It’s demanding.” Many women in her situation spent their days playing bridge or golf at the country club or shopping in Memphis, but not his mother. She was busy ramrodding the hired help at Belle Pointe.

  “I hear you.” And his mother wasn’t one to call and chat either. Something was up.

  “I was surprised to see Anne at Beatrice’s shop this morning,” she said. “It seems odd that she’s here and you’re there.”

  “Anne claims when I’m injured I’m like a bear with a sore paw, so she took off to visit Franklin and Beatrice.” And he’d be joining her in a week. It was killing him to wait, but he was afraid of a setback if he put too much stress on his knee too soon.

  “Yes, she mentioned that you didn’t tolerate much coddling. What was it she said…hmm, something like you’d have the entire Jacks organization looking out for you. That you wouldn’t need her.”

  Buck rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. His head ached. It wasn’t the concussion. His mother always gave him a headache. “How’s Pearce’s campaign going?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. Pearce is preoccupied with his campaign, which is a complication. It makes us shorthanded at Belle Pointe.”

  “Ma, you’re not trying to tell me he ever gets his hands dirty at planting season or any other time, are you?” he asked.

  “I can only tell you I miss every pair of hands, especially now that Will Wainwright gave notice.”

  “Will has quit?” Buck’s mouth fell open.

  “Retired.” She gave an offended huff. “He gave me some excuse about wanting to see more of his grandchildren. It was terribly inconvenient.”

  “Holy sh—Um…holy schmolie,” he breathed. Wainwright had been her right-hand man for fifteen years. “Now there’s a pair of hands you’ll definitely miss.”

  “I must agree with you there,” she said. “However, I think I’ve resolved the problem, Buck. With Pearce caught up in this campaign and you idle for the season, the stars seem aligned.”

  “The stars seem aligned?” Now what, he wondered.

  “Yes, indeed. We’re in a bind at Belle Pointe and you always understood what was required to get the crops planted and maintained until it was time to start picking. You’re well able to step right into Wainwright’s shoes.”

  “Ma, if you’re asking what I think you’re asking, forget it. I’ve got my hands full with rehab. I—”

  “Added to that,” she went on, “it looks odd that you’re in St. Louis and your wife’s here. People talk. Do you really need more bad publicity, Buck? After that boy, Casey—”

  “Ma, it’s not a good time for me,” he argued, keeping his travel plans to himself. If she knew he was heading for Tallulah, she’d probably meet him at the city limits on a tractor and hog-tie him to the nearest cotton field.

  She sighed. “I expected just that reaction from you, Buck, but I also know that after you think about it, in the end you’ll do your duty. You love Belle Pointe. Don’t deny it. You won’t be able to resist helping out. It’s what your father would want you to do.”

  Somehow, he managed to keep his outrage in check. She had her nerve mentioning his father. Fifteen years ago when John Whitaker died, Buck had wanted nothing more than to step in and fill his father’s shoes, but she’d had different plans then. “I appreciate the problem you’re having, Ma, but I’ve got other priorities right now. You need to find a good manager to replace Will. As for somebody to step into Pearce’s shoes, I can’t think it would be too difficult since he never knew jack shit about growing cotton anyway.”

  “I don’t appreciate your vulgarity, Buck,” she said frostily. “And I might remind you of your responsibility as a Whitaker.”

  “What’s different now from the day Dad died, tell me that. You reminded me then that Pearce was the primary heir to Belle Pointe, that when I finished my degree, I was to forget coming home to grow cotton.”

  “It worked out well, didn’t it? You had excellent prospects for a career in professional baseball and you made it. I knew you could.”

  “After about te
n miserable years in the minors, Ma!”

  “And would you have tried as hard if your real goal was simply to return to Belle Pointe?” she replied. “I think not.”

  His laugh was short and mirthless. “You’re telling me you practically disinherited me for my own good? And now, because Pearce is temporarily distracted, I should forget all that?” He stopped at a sudden thought. “What if he wins that senatorial seat as you predict and then decides he doesn’t want to play at being a gentleman farmer anymore? What if he wants to live most of the year in the state capitol? What then, Ma?”

  “Pearce knows where his duty lies. Which is exactly what I expect from you. To use a baseball metaphor, I expect you to step up to the plate, Buck. Do your duty.”

  He was shaking his head at the gall of her. “Again, no disrespect, Mother, but you’ll have to find another pinch hitter.”

  It was almost a week after interviewing Pearce that Anne was able to secure an interview with Jack Breedlove and nothing about the man struck her as pitiful. Far from it, Breed-love was tall and lean with severe features that were not quite handsome, but powerfully male. She was used to world-class athletes with an excess of testosterone and this man, she thought, would fit right in with Buck and his teammates.

  The slight limp was a souvenir of his tour of duty in the Gulf War, she thought, as he came around his desk to greet her, but she quickly forgot his handicap as he took her hand and smiled down at her from striking green eyes. “Anne Whitaker. I feel as if I know you considering how often I’ve seen you in the Jacks VIP box. Welcome to Tallulah.”

  “Thank you.” A little flustered, she took the seat he offered. “I know you’re busy, so I won’t take up too much of your time. As I mentioned when I phoned you, I thought it would be interesting to contrast the platforms of the two leading senate candidates, especially since you’re both from Tallulah.”

  He didn’t return to his chair, but propped one hip casually on the side of his desk and crossed his feet at the ankles. “I’m up for that, of course, but first, how’s Buck? Bad news, that accident. I’ve been following it in the media. Word is he’s out for the season.”