by Karen Young
“From all I know about Laura, she was a lovely person,” Beatrice said.
“She was. And now that she’s gone and Dad is remarried and so obviously happy, I can’t see any reason not to pick up where I left off in the eighth grade.” She grinned. “I know it won’t be the same as being part of a family, that’s not what bothers me. But I’d just like to know.” She paused, searching Beatrice’s face. “Is that so wrong?”
“Of course not.” Beatrice rose from the table with her cup in hand and went to the sink. “If it’s troubling you so much, you have every right to search.”
Anne got up to carry her cup to the sink. She stood for a moment watching as Beatrice opened the door of the dishwasher. “Do you think it will upset Dad when he finds out I’m doing this?”
“Maybe…” Beatrice smiled. “But he loves you too much to ever say no.”
The lodge was a raised West Indies-type dwelling with wide steps ascending to a covered porch or gallery, as some called it, that encircled the house. Raised high off the ground to prevent the possibility of flooding, it overlooked the Mississippi River. The lodge was the place where he’d come of age as a Mississippi boy. Buck had found it a perfect escape from the conflicts that made life a misery at Belle Pointe.
It was the site of some of his best—and worst—memories. He’d learned to swim in the river at the lodge and he’d perfected the art of fishing, camping and canoeing. He’d hunted dove, turkey, quail and ducks here. He’d bagged his first deer when he was nine years old not fifty yards behind the lodge. And it had been here that he’d first seen death up close and personal.
Finding the door unlocked, he shook off memories, good and bad, and pushed it open, shaking his head at the arrogance of his family in thinking it unnecessary to lock the place as no one would dare vandalize Whitaker property. With his knee killing him after climbing twenty-six steps to the porch, he dropped his duffel just inside the door, closed it, and leaned back against it.
The smell of the place instantly took him back in time. The musty scent of a closed house, but overlaid with something lemony, whatever his mother ordered for the care of the pine floors and wood trim. Leather-upholstered furniture. Kerosene for the hurricane lamps, in case of an electrical outage. Candle wax. The past.
He took up the duffel and without looking much at anything, without turning on a light, went straight through the big front room to one of the smaller bedrooms radiating out from it. He reached for the tail of his sweatshirt and pulled it over his head, tossed it on the floor. Taking care to favor his knee, he took his pants off and without even checking to see if the bed was made with clean sheets—with any sheets—he elevated his knee on a pillow, grabbed the blanket folded at the foot of the bed and with a relieved groan, lay back. In less than a minute, he was asleep.
He came awake the next morning to the sound of a car. He was still for a beat or two, hoping that whoever it was wouldn’t stop, then cursed under his breath when he heard footsteps on the porch. He guessed it was Pearce. He should have known his brother would waste no time trying to rope him into his campaign.
He rolled out of bed and on his way to the bathroom swept up his pants and duffel. It wouldn’t hurt Pearce to cool his heels. Standing under hot spray, he found to his relief that his knee seemed okay. He could even put a little weight on it. Maybe he could make do with a cane instead of the crutch. Luckily, he’d brought a couple with him.
The visitor was not Pearce. It was his mother.
Victoria stood at one of the windows in the great room, which put bright morning sun at her back and in Buck’s face. “Word reached us at Belle Pointe that you were here at the lodge,” she said, making no move to cross the room and greet him. “I’m happy you changed your mind, but it would have been nice to let us know you were heading this way. How’s that knee?”
“Coming along…with physical therapy daily,” he told her. “I figured I can be tortured in Tallulah as well as in St. Louis.” He spread his hands, moving toward her. “Don’t I get a hug, Ma?”
It was Buck doing the hugging, but she tolerated it. “Did you get one from your wife?” she asked, smoothing her hair.
He ignored that, hoping her remark was a shot in the dark. “I apologize for not calling, Ma. It was late when I finally got here, so I just crashed.”
She looked around the lodge slowly. “Here? Why not at the Marshes’ with your wife?”
His mother was the last person he wanted to know about his marital problems. “I’d offer you breakfast, but I haven’t had a chance to stock up on groceries yet,” he said, reaching for a cane. “But if memory serves, there’s always coffee. Join me in the kitchen?” At her nod, he swept out an arm for her to precede him.
The kitchen had always been his favorite room at the lodge. It was a fully equipped Viking showplace, but the brand and expense of the appliances weren’t what made the place special to Buck. It was the hours—years—he spent as a boy in masculine harmony with the men who’d gathered at the lodge to hunt and fish and hang out. In this kitchen, he’d cleaned fish and dressed game alongside his father and his father’s friends, men Southern born and bred and passionately devoted to preserving a way of life unheard-of beyond the boundaries of the Mississippi Delta.
He pulled out a chair at the round oak table in the center of the room. “Sit down, Ma. I’ll have it ready in a jif.”
He found the coffee can in the freezer and the coffeemaker tucked neatly in the pantry. When it was brewing, he turned and got a good look at his mother in morning light. She was sixty on her last birthday and for the first time, he saw that she was beginning to show her age. But not enough that she’d allowed herself to go gray or to get fat. As long as he could remember, she’d been a regular client at an expensive salon in Memphis, but no salon could give her that trim figure or that air of culture and class. It was discipline and a never-flagging determination to rise above her birth in a working-class family, a fact that she despised and was never mentioned by anyone who wanted to keep his head.
Leaning heavily on the cane, he pulled out a chair and sat down. “Is it wise for you to be up and about with your injury?” Victoria asked, frowning.
“It’s okay. I’ll be doing some physical therapy with a personal trainer while I’m here. You remember Ty Pittman, don’t you?”
“Oscar’s boy? Of course.”
“He’s a top-notch PT. I’ve called him and he’s agreed to come out to the lodge and work with me as long as it takes.”
“It sounds as if you don’t plan on going back to St. Louis right away.”
“I’m here until the knee is back to normal. Anne’s keen on visiting with her dad and getting to know her new stepmother. Anyway, it looks as if I’m out for the season.”
“What exactly is the situation with you and Anne?” she asked, watching as he elevated his injured leg. “Don’t bother telling me everything’s fine. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t be sleeping here at the lodge. It doesn’t appear that she’s simply visiting her father and Beatrice. Is this a formal separation?”
“I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, Ma,” he said, “but I’m not discussing my personal life.”
“That may be, but you’ll soon find that everyone else in Tallulah will be doing exactly that. As I mentioned when I called you last week, it will look odd when people realize the two of you are staying in separate locations.”
“Then it’ll just have to look odd,” he said shortly. “That’s the way it is.”
“Yes, yes.” She waved away his irritation. “However, to keep gossip down, it would be best for you and Anne to come to Belle Pointe, I think.”
“No, thank you,” he said.
She gave him a familiar disapproving frown, the one he remembered from the time he was about four years old and then daily until he walked away from Belle Pointe. “You always were too quick off the mark, Buck.”
A glance at the pot told him the coffee was almost ready. He stood up. “It comes in
handy when I’m pitching,” he said.
“Do you want to be the object of gossip?” she demanded. “Are you trying to call attention to yourself? That’s exactly what will happen if you’re here at the lodge and Anne is with the Marshes. It’ll create a firestorm of speculation. Gossips will say your career is over, that your marriage is on the rocks and that there’s probably more scandal just waiting to surface. God knows, we have our share of gossips here.”
“I’m not staying at Belle Point while I’m here, Mother. And neither is Anne.” He opened a cabinet door. “As for gossip and speculation, bring it on. I’m used to it.”
“But is Anne?”
Soft beeps from the coffeemaker saved him having to answer. “You still take yours without cream and sugar, I assume,” he said as he took two mugs down from the cabinet. “There might be sugar, but—”
“Black is fine,” she told him, watching as he poured. “And you’re right, what’s going on in your marriage is none of my business. Whatever the reason you’re here in Tallulah, it’s fortuitous. Now you’ll be able to lend us a hand at Belle Pointe. It couldn’t have worked out better. Also, I expect—”
“Ma, I told you before, don’t count on me to do Will’s job. I’ll help you find someone to replace him, but—”
“You just told me your knee is fine. What will you do with yourself after your daily physical therapy sessions, pray tell? We need you at Belle Pointe. Mother Nature doesn’t wait. The time to plant is now. If your father were here, he’d expect you to put aside hard feelings for the good of Belle Pointe.”
“Hard feelings.” He stared at her, wondering if she really expected that a few words wiped out years of bitterness and hurt.
Seeing his expression, she waved an impatient hand. “Take a few days to think it over, Buck. It’s probably best for you not to put stress on that knee too soon anyway. Meanwhile, you’ll also be able to participate in Pearce’s campaign. Nothing physical in that. Anne’s article in the Spectator should come out in the next edition. I’m not wholly supportive, as you can imagine. His—”
“You don’t like the idea of Anne writing about him?”
“No, no, you misunderstand. Politics has a way of consuming an individual and Pearce’s first responsibility must be to Belle Pointe. However, there are advantages. There’s power in a senatorial seat. Doors are opened, opportunities present. But Whitakers have been planters first and foremost, so once he wins the seat I don’t want Pearce to lose sight of his heritage.”
No, we mustn’t lose sight of Pearce’s precious heritage. “You sound as if he’s already won.”
“Well, of course. He has the Whitaker name and the prestige that comes with it. I can’t imagine his opponent giving him any real competition.”
Knowing Pearce, Buck guessed he would trade heavily on that name, too, as well as the Whitaker wealth. Pearce’s political philosophy aside, his brother looked good, he had a first-class education, a beautiful wife and with the blessing of their influential mother, he would probably make a formidable candidate. But so would Jack Breedlove.
“I take it you think there’s no chance that his opponent will win?”
“Jack Breedlove? In the senate?” There was no mistaking the look of distaste on her face. “Hardly.”
Like Claire’s parents all those years ago, Victoria didn’t consider Jack’s blood blue enough when compared to Pearce. But Buck recalled Jack’s tenacity and focus when they played baseball together. Raised by a single mom, he was forced to juggle practice and games around a job. It was still a mystery why he hadn’t snagged a college scholarship. Instead, when they graduated, he’d joined the army. Buck had always wondered if Jack’s decision had anything to do with the fact that Claire’s folks busted up their romance.
“I wouldn’t be so fast to write Jack off,” he warned.
“He’s a decent chief of police, I’ll grant that,” Victoria said, brushing at a tiny speck on her sleeve. “But he’s simply not senatorial material and I’m confident the people in this jurisdiction will recognize that. So you see…” She touched a napkin to her lips, “it’s important that you take care while you’re here, Buck. If there’s trouble between you and Anne, you must see to it that you keep a low profile so as not to give Breedlove a chance to throw mud.”
“What if I decide to endorse Jack instead of Pearce?”
She gave him a cold look. “That is your idea of a joke, I assume.”
He turned and poured the remains of his coffee in the sink. “Yeah, it was a joke, Ma.”
“I wish you would stop calling me that,” she said irritably. “When will you ever grow up?”
“Oh, I don’t know…Mother. Maybe when I stop playing a game for a living and get on with life in a real job.” They’d rubbed each other the wrong way for thirty-seven years. And still did.
“You can see that it’s important to keep up appearances,” she told him, ignoring his sarcasm. “If you and Anne won’t stay at Belle Pointe, perhaps we could avoid speculation if you’re seen coming and going.” She tapped a finger against her lips, thinking. “Bring Anne to dinner on Sunday night. She and I have already discussed a visit to Belle Pointe. I’ve been remiss in not setting a day and time. Things are just so hectic right now.”
“You’ve seen Anne?”
“Of course. I welcomed her to Tallulah the moment I heard she was here. But as I was saying, if you’re together at Belle Pointe, people will see all is well in the family. And you will have endorsed Pearce by that time.”
“Two things, Mother.” He leaned against the counter with his arms folded across his chest. “If I endorse Pearce, it won’t be because he’s my brother or that you expect it. It’ll be because I’ve decided he’s the best man for the job. And as for bringing Anne to dinner at Belle Pointe, I can’t promise that. I’ll have to ask her.”
“She’s promised me and she’s a woman of her word. And of course you’ll endorse Pearce. Don’t be ridiculous.”
He sighed and changed the subject. “How is Claire these days? Is she looking forward to being Mrs. Senator Whitaker?”
“She could very well be Pearce’s Achilles heel in this election,” Victoria said with a small frown. “Lately she seems…well, without purpose. It’s distressing.”
“She’s a wife and mother,” he said. “That’s purpose enough for many women. Paige is…what now, thirteen, fourteen?”
“Fourteen. And when you see her, you’ll know what I mean. She’s impossible. But I can’t say I’m surprised. Pearce is extremely busy with his law practice, his responsibilities at Belle Pointe and his campaign, so he’s simply unable to be father and mother to her. And, apparently, expecting Claire to become a responsible parent is like expecting a butterfly to morph into an eagle. She was a flighty teenager and she’s a flighty woman. Why Pearce didn’t see that before marrying her I’ll never know.”
“Maybe he was blinded by the fact that her daddy is president of the bank.”
She gave an offended sniff. “Claire will settle down eventually. She knows the consequences otherwise. And Paige is already facing the consequences of her foolishness. After making a failing grade in honors English, she now spends three afternoons a week at the Spectator to bring up her grade.”
“What can a fourteen-year-old girl do at a newspaper?”
“She can sweep floors, if nothing else,” Victoria told him. “I don’t care what tasks she’s assigned. She must learn there are consequences for bad behavior.”
Life at Belle Pointe was still just one big screwed-up mess, Buck thought wearily, unchanged from the time he was trapped there. Anne had always been fascinated by his family and here, by his mother’s invitation, she’d get an up close and personal look at the Whitakers. No doubt, the meal would be a travesty of what a real family dinner should be, but he wasn’t passing up any chance to be with his wife. All he had to do was persuade her to go with him.
Ty showed up later that day and after poking and prying, pronounced
Buck in less than first-class shape for the demands that would be placed on him when he started practice next season in St. Louis. He outlined a punishing regimen and then left after arranging for the installation of the equipment he considered necessary and which he’d already bought with Buck’s money. When he showed up at the lodge two days later, the room was outfitted and looked as professional as anything Buck would have access to back at the Jacks facility in St. Louis.
Now, sprawled flat on his back on a floor mat, sweating and in pain, he was barely able to lift one finger—his third—to give his PT a crude insult. “And for this I’m paying you?” he muttered to the huge black man.
“Top dollar,” Tyrone Pittman said, grinning. “And I’m worth every penny.”
“Maybe,” Buck snorted, “but it wasn’t in the bargain for you to cripple me further before you whipped me back in shape.”
“Shape?” It was Ty’s turn to snort. “Shape I found you in, buddy, there could have been no treatment. Beats me how you were throwin’ them fastballs to the competition. Muscles in your arms are plain mush. You want the Jacks in the Series next year, we gotta get that arm in shape.”
“Hello? I hired you to fix my knee, not my arm.” Wincing, Buck managed to roll into a sitting position. “Shit, man, I’m aching in places I didn’t even know I had!”
“Keep that knee straight and that compress in place,” Ty ordered, placing a hand on Buck’s sternum to force him back down on the mat. “And tomorrow when I come out here for our session, I want to see you giving a hundred percent. You were out in space somewhere today, Buck.”
