by Karen Young
“See, you did know all this, Beady!” Paige said.
With one foot on the stair, Beatrice thought for a minute. “I’m only guessing, but I think Claire’s parents were concerned since she was so young.”
“And he was from the wrong side of the tracks!” Paige said.
Beatrice sighed. “Claire left Tallulah to go to an exclusive school somewhere in Virginia…I believe it was. She finished high school there.”
“She was, like, banished from everything and everyone she loved. That was mean.” Paige slid off the table and, after a moment, said with a thoughtful look, “I wonder if my mom would have been happier if she’d married Jack Breedlove.”
Beatrice met Anne’s eyes over the child’s head. “I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion, Paige,” she said gently. “Things are not always what they seem.”
“Maybe not,” Paige said, “but my mom is definitely unhappy.”
“I really must get back to the shop,” Beatrice said, going up the stairs. “Anne, please don’t start dinner before I get home. You’re making me feel guilty cooking for us every night.”
Anne gave a noncommittal wave as the door closed behind her stepmother and braced for Paige to continue to pursue the subject of her mother’s unhappiness. But when Paige spoke, it wasn’t about Claire.
“Hey, Anne, look at this,” she said as she sorted through the contents of the broken box. Settling back on her ugly boots, she spread an old issue on the floor. “It’s dated way back in the sixties. It’s about a man from Tallulah who was killed in Vietnam. Here’s his picture. It’s sad, isn’t it?”
Anne glanced briefly at the grainy photo before removing the cap from a black felt pen to mark a box. “The Vietnam war was sad,” she said.
“Rudy Baker, age twenty-one.”
“Hmm?”
“The soldier. That was his name, Rudy Baker.” With her head to one side, Paige studied the face in the photo. “He looks kind of familiar, doesn’t he?”
Anne put a star beside the date—1985—on the box so she’d be able to find it again. She wanted to read about the hunting accident again later when she was alone. Now that Buck revealed the remark Baker made about Victoria, the incident had taken on the interesting aspect of a mystery. Pearce and John Whitaker—and possibly Victoria—may have been able to rationalize the circumstances of a man’s death without guilt, but not Buck. Even now, years later, he still felt troubled at keeping their secret. More and more, she understood why Buck had chosen to distance himself from his family.
What was most interesting was that Buck suspected his mother of something—a secret or an act or an event—important enough that Pearce may have committed murder to conceal it. That alone was enough to alert any journalist, even one who was woefully out of practice.
Much later, as she lay in bed on the edge of sleep, she thought about the last name of the soldier killed in Vietnam. It was the same as the name of the man who’d died while hunting with Pearce. Baker. Sleepily, she wondered if they were related.
Fourteen
Lately, dinner at Belle Pointe had been a totally feminine affair. Paige was okay with that because when her dad came, he hogged the conversation. Between him and the Dragon, nobody else said much. Not that her mom seemed to care. Paige wondered what had been going on in her mom’s head lately, but she didn’t plan to bug her about it since Claire hadn’t touched a drink in about five days—she didn’t want to mess that up. Maybe this time she would stick to her promise. That would be nice.
Since she was now a vegetarian, Paige loaded her plate with an extra helping of broccoli and just a dab of corn casserole. No way was she going to eat one of those chicken breasts no matter how good they smelled. As for the rolls…maybe. Big-time carbs there.
“What’s wrong?” Claire asked, looking at Paige’s plate. “Aren’t you hungry? Are you sick?”
“No, I’m a vegetarian now.”
Claire laughed, her eyebrows raised. “A vegetarian? Since when?”
“Since this article I read. Did you know that you can add like, six years to your life if you give up eating anything that comes from an animal?”
“I wouldn’t want to live that long if I could never have a steak,” Claire said, slicing heartily into her chicken breast.
“This is only my first day, but I’m not quitting.”
“Where is this new attitude coming from?” Claire wanted to know. “It can’t be from anything at the Spectator, since only a week ago you considered the time you spend there cruel and unusual punishment.”
“It’s interesting now. Your finger is on the pulse of a community,” Paige said, waving a half-eaten broccoli stalk on the end of her fork. “Journalists know everything that happens and everything that has already happened is in the archives. It’s way cool.”
“‘Your finger is on the pulse of a community?’” Claire repeated with open amusement.
“Definitely.”
“So, tell me something interesting that’s happening.”
“Well, for one thing, I’ve decided what to do as a career,” Paige said, chewing broccoli. You were supposed to chew a long time. Chewing was a basic human urge and you didn’t eat as much if you chewed a lot.
“And your career choice is…”
“I want to be a reporter. It takes guts and brains, but you get to go to a lot of cool places and be involved when cool stuff is happening.”
“I don’t know about going to cool places,” Claire said, “but I know one smart reporter, who shall be nameless, who definitely has guts. Could that be where you’re getting these ideas?”
One of Victoria’s elegant eyebrows rose as she sliced a sliver of chicken. “I assume that’s a reference to Anne. I’m very disappointed in the article she wrote. In fact, I wonder if she’s a proper role model for Paige.”
Paige was quick to defend Anne. “She’s a perfect role model. And it’s a lot more fun digging around in all that old stuff when Aunt Anne’s doing it, too.”
Victoria carefully balanced her knife on the edge of her plate and looked at Paige. “Anne is digging around in what, exactly?”
“Mostly family stuff,” Paige said, eyeing a roll. “Are you still a vegetarian if you eat bread?”
“Beats me,” Claire said.
“What kind of family stuff?” Victoria asked, passing the basket of dinner rolls over.
“Just Whitaker family stuff. Anything about Belle Pointe.” Paige took two rolls and bit hungrily into the first. “And there’s plenty of stuff about this place.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Victoria ordered.
Paige gulped down peach tea. Milk she refused to drink, no matter how the Dragon nagged. “It’s not only Uncle Buck either. She asks a lot of questions about the family in general.”
Victoria looked stern. “I forbid you to discuss this family, Paige.”
“She doesn’t ask me, Gran,” Paige replied patiently. “It’s from the archives and Beady tells her stuff, too. She knows Tallulah history from way back.” She turned to her mother, pointing with her fork. “For instance, Mom, Beady knew all about when you and Jack were lovers in high school.”
“Paige!” Claire sputtered into her peach tea. “We were not lovers.”
“And she said definitely not when I asked if Jack Breed-love was my real father.”
“Omigod,” Claire exclaimed faintly.
Paige grinned. “Aw, I’m just kidding. You have to admit, you acted really, like, so freaky when he stopped us.”
Victoria turned a glacial look on Claire. “What is this child talking about?”
“Nothing, Victoria. Paige, leave the table if you can’t behave yourself.”
Paige reached for the bowl of garden salad, which was one of those all-you-can-eat-is-okay foods. “So where was I?” she said, settling back. “Oh, yeah, Aunt Anne poking around in family stuff. It’s nothing for you to get your panties in a wad, Gran. She’s just doing it because she’s married to Uncle Buck and
her daddy wrote a book about this place and she’s just, like, interested.” Paige gave Miriam her glass to refill. “She thinks I don’t notice what she’s reading, but I do. And the reason I know is that my job is organizing the old Spectator files that came from Professor what’s-his-name who died. He used to be a Spectator contributor or something a long time ago.”
Claire set her glass down. “Hey, maybe you have a reporter’s instincts after all.”
“Aunt Anne gave up her career as a reporter to be married to Uncle Buck. I don’t know this for sure, but maybe that’s why he’s at the lodge and she’s staying with her daddy. I mean, maybe she’s tired of being arm candy.”
“Arm candy?” Another faint response from Claire.
“Yeah, athletes have them—beautiful wives who don’t have a brain. Only Aunt Anne’s got a brain and she wants to use it. I think she wants to have a baby, too. She goes all mushy when we see babies or she reads anything about them.”
“You certainly don’t know that and do not repeat it to anyone else,” Claire said. “Buck would skin you alive if he caught you gossiping about his marriage.”
“I know that, Mom,” Paige said. “I’m, like, totally cool with it.”
“Since you appear to know so much,” Victoria said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin, “maybe you can reveal Anne’s purpose in collecting material about our family.”
Paige forked up the last smidgen of corn casserole, chewed slowly and swallowed it. “She denied it before, but I think she’s really writing a book. She’s gonna tell all!”
Claire choked out a laugh. “What’s to tell that the world doesn’t already know? Anything that’s ever happened to the Whitakers was always front-page news around here. We have no secrets, honey.”
“That’s not what Aunt Anne says.” Paige eyed the banana pudding dessert that Miriam placed on the table and helped herself. Vegetarian didn’t mean she couldn’t have dessert, did it? “Aunt Anne says everybody has secrets.”
Anne was on the point of leaving the house when she heard a car pull into the driveway and stop. Thinking her stepmother had probably forgotten something, she headed to the front door. But it wasn’t Beatrice who emerged from the car.
Victoria Whitaker paused at the bottom of the steps. “I hope my dropping in this way isn’t too inconvenient,” she said with a frosty smile. “I wanted to try and catch you before you left.”
Anne held the front door open. “Come in, please.”
She watched Victoria climb the steps up to the porch, admiring her mother-in-law’s style. Today, although there was a trace of strain on her face, she was the quintessential Southern matron in sharply creased linen slacks and an Ann Taylor cropped blazer over a silk shirt. As she crossed the threshold, she brought with her the subtle scent of gardenias. Once she was seated in the living room, Anne offered coffee.
“Thank you, no.” Victoria glanced at her watch. “I had an errand in town and I really should have called first, but—”
Anne waved away her excuses. “I’m just on my way to an assignment. One of the perks of a reporter’s job is not being tied to a desk,” she said with a smile, “which means my hours are flexible.”
“Hmm. I’ll admit to some surprise that you’ve plunged into your job with so much enthusiasm since I expect you will eventually return to St. Louis with Buck. I was also surprised and frankly disappointed in your article about Pearce.As you carry the Whitaker name, I expected more loyalty from you, Anne.”
Anne felt some relief. She’d expected more express disapproval from Victoria. Instead, the rebuke was pretty mild. “Can you point to anything specific? Pearce made his objections plain the day the paper came out, but he was unable to tell me exactly where I’d been inaccurate…or biased.”
Victoria made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “It was the way you wrote the piece, side by side with Jack Breed-love.” Saying the name, her mouth thinned with distaste. “But I’m not here to tell you how to do your job. There’s something else on my mind.”
Her curiosity on full red alert, Anne sat on the edge of her seat.
“Paige tells me,” Victoria said, “that you’re using the Spectator’s archives as a source for considerable research on Belle Pointe and the Whitakers.”
Anne was a little let down. What had she expected from her mother-in-law, a bit of scandal or a juicy tidbit? “That’s right, between the archives and Paige, I could write a book.”
“This is genuine research? You’re writing a book?”
Anne dismissed her concern with a laugh. “That was a joke, a figure of speech. Or, to be completely honest, I haven’t yet decided against writing a book, but I know the difficulty in finding an agent and a publisher, in dealing with marketing and promotion issues. Frankly, it’s all so daunting that I’m not sure I want to bother. All that aside, I still find it fun to read Tallulah’s history.”
“None of that explains your interest in Belle Pointe and the Whitakers,” Victoria pointed out.
“No, I suppose not,” Anne said, studying her hands. “I’ll try to explain. I started by poking around in the archives only to satisfy a fascination I’ve had since childhood. I’m sure I was influenced by my dad’s obsession, which as you know, resulted in a book. So Buck’s background at Belle Pointe, as a fifth-generation Whitaker, is naturally of interest to me. Any family going back that far tends to make its mark in the area.” Anne paused, considering whether to take the conversation to a more personal level. “Were you aware that I’m adopted?”
“No, I was not,” Victoria replied with only a slight widening of her eyes.
“Well, I am a ‘lonely only’ and I’ve always fantasized about having cousins and aunts and uncles. I consider Buck so lucky to have that.”
“I’m not sure he would agree with you,” Victoria said dryly.
“And I admit I’ve never understood why.” When Victoria went quiet at that, Anne sensed her caution. Curiouser and curiouser. She wasn’t the type of mother-in-law to just drop in for a chat and keep the subject to generalities. Anne decided to wait her out.
“It’s one thing to focus on the area itself,” Victoria said. “Granted, the Delta has a colorful history. Your father’s book was a balanced portrayal of the good and the bad, unlike any number of other books that have just savaged us Mississippians.” She paused. “But I question what in particular you find so interesting about my family.”
My family. Not our family. Was Victoria suggesting that Anne hadn’t measured up as a Whitaker? “I’ll say this one more time, Victoria,” she said quietly, “I’m not researching a book. I’m simply looking at old issues of the Spectator because, frankly, I find Tallulah and Belle Pointe and the Delta interesting.” So much for getting to the point. Their conversation had taken on a surreal air and she still hadn’t a clue what the woman was getting at. “I’m puzzled as to what point you’re trying to make, Victoria.”
“Pearce is involved in a political campaign,” Victoria said. “This is a small town but, as someone said, ‘All politics is local.’ It can get just as nasty here in Tallulah as it does in Washington.”
Ah, Pearce. Back to the favored offspring.
“If information is taken out of context, the potential for disaster is great,” Victoria said. “Such information in the hands of my son’s enemies could wreck his candidacy. They’ll seize on something and crucify him. I don’t know how else to impress upon you what could result.”
“I certainly have no intention of harming Buck’s brother, Victoria.”
“You’ve already done so in writing that article. My purpose is to request that you don’t do it again.”
“I said nothing negative about Pearce in that article!” Anne argued.
“One can be damned with faint praise, Anne,” Victoria said, “which is what I think you did in that article. So we’ll agree to disagree. But I’m still asking you to forgo further research in the archives until after the election.”
Anne could not keep
the astonishment from her face. “Excuse me? You’re asking me to stay completely away from the archives?” She paused, waiting for a denial, but Victoria stayed stonily silent. “You want me to stop looking on the off chance that I might find something that could be potentially embarrassing, which might possibly be misconstrued and could conceivably fall in the hands of Pearce’s opponent, who would perhaps crucify him and maybe wreck his chances at the polls? Do you realize how incredible that sounds, Victoria?”
“Buck has already mentioned the thousand acres that once belonged to Harvey Jones and is now part of Belle Pointe,” Victoria replied stiffly. “There’s one example of a perfectly legal transaction that could be misconstrued.”
“I can see that you wouldn’t want that to find its way onto the front page just now,” Anne said dryly. “I take it there is other…ah, embarrassing stuff?”
Victoria stood up, no trace of a smile, not even a frosty one. “As Buck’s wife, it’s your duty to protect the family name. I hope that you’ll remember your connection to the family if you must satisfy your curiosity about Tallulah, Belle Pointe and the Whitakers.”
Oh, she was family now. “I will remember that,” she promised. But she wasn’t about to promise to cover up anything that smelled bad. And there must be something. Otherwise, Victoria would never have lowered herself to ask.
After writing an article for the next issue of the Spectator, Anne went to her stepmother’s shop. She liked Beatrice’s down-to-earth outlook and found herself drawn to her more and more lately. One look at Anne and Beatrice turned the shop over to her assistant.
Her stepmother’s office was small and haphazardly cluttered. Half-opened boxes sat on the floor. Adding to the cramped floor space were cartons with bubble wrap and peanut packing spilling out. Papers that appeared to be invoices were a jumbled mess on her desktop. File folders were stacked six inches high on the only other chair besides the one behind Beatrice’s desk. How she managed to run her shop so efficiently was a mystery to Anne.
