Yesterday

by Fern Michaels

  “I will, Bode. I love you so much,” Pearl cried brokenly.

  Tears rolled down Bode’s cheeks. “All I am I owe to you, Mama Pearl. I couldn’t have done it without your help. I just wish you’d let me do something for you. I’d work my ass off for you, you know that, don’t you? I’d give you my last dime, the shirt off my back.”

  “My love isn’t for sale, Bode Jessup. Now you git on out of here before I start to howl like a banshee.”

  She watched from the kitchen doorway as Bode walked out to the road. She saw him stop once and raise his eyes to the second floor. She knew he was remembering another time when he had stood there . . . waiting. Pearl drew in her breath, waiting to see if Callie would come running from the first-floor bedroom she now occupied. She wanted to scream to Bode, “You’re looking at the wrong window!” but she bit down on her lip, tasting the salty tang of her own blood.

  When Callie didn’t emerge from her bedroom and when Bode was no longer in her sight, Pearl went outside and wheeled Bode’s bike to the barn. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Callie was watching her, she was sure of it.

  Inside the dark barn, Pearl’s shoulders slumped as sobs ripped from her throat. “I should have told him.” She dropped to her knees in prayer. “Lord, I’m just a poor, old, dumb woman with no brains. Keep my boy safe and make Miz Callie happy. If it’s too much to ask, punish me some way. I’ll pray harder, more, anything You want. I promise to wear shoes. You know how hard that is for me, but I’ll do it if You keep my boy and girl safe. That’s all I have to say, Lord. Oh, one last thing, don’t let this here bicycle rust. I’d like it to be in good condition when Bode gits back. This is Pearl. You know I don’t have no last name so I can’t identify myself more. Just Pearl, from Parker Manor, Lord. Amen.”

  Callie watched Bode from behind the curtain in her room. Her hands were clenched into tight fists. “Look back, Bode, look back,” she whispered. She wanted to shout his name, to tell him to wait, to say she wasn’t angry; but she was angry. She wanted to run out to say good-bye, but her feet were rooted to the floor.

  “You’re never coming back, I know that, Bode Jessup. You aren’t my friend. You lied. You’re turning your back on me when I need you the most. Friends share. I wanted you here so I could share my happiness, knowing someday you’d invite me to share yours. Damn you, Bode, I hate you. I’ll hate you till the day I die. Go to New Mexico, see if I care. If you write, I’ll send the letters back unopened. I hate you, Bode Jessup. I hateyouhateyouhateyou.”

  5

  The overhead sign at the entrance to Archer Hall was worn and simple. The carving, done by some long-ago slave, had weathered with the years, blending perfectly with the long row of angel oaks that dripped Spanish moss, giving an eerie and yet beautiful impression to first-time visitors. The road was made of old Charlestonian paving that, over the years, had been restored, brick by brick. It ran in a straight line, as straight as the angel oaks that graced both sides of it. At the end stood Archer Hall, glorious in the summer sunlight. Its pristine whiteness, its massive white columns, made visitors gasp in delight, imagining all manner of antebellum soirees and carriage-driven guests arriving for festivities.

  There were still soirees but the guests arrived in Lincoln Town Cars, Mercedes Benz automobiles, and Porsches. The food was the same, the recipes handed down over the years, and all of it simple and rich, with elegant desserts that were described as sinful to a lady’s waistline.

  Wynfield Archer reined in the gelding at the entrance to his home. Damn, he was running late, but this ride was important to him. Everything in life was important to Wyn. He never did anything he couldn’t give one hundred percent of his attention to. He looked now at his riding partner, Kallum Trinity, who was also his business partner and best friend. “I’d die if I ever had to give this up,” he said quietly.

  “Then I suggest you curb your spending,” Kal said just as soberly. “I told you months ago we have a serious cash-flow problem. Business is down twenty percent and you spent a fortune renovating the master suite in the house. Plus,” Kallum said, holding up his hand to forestall what he thought Wyn was going to say next, “plus, I know weddings are important, but does this really have to be the wedding of the century? Jesus, Wyn, the last time I checked your bank balance, I—Fifty thousand dollars for a wedding is outrageous in my opinion.”

  “That’s what I get for having a CPA and lawyer for a business partner. But, to answer your question about the wedding first, I want to give Callie the best, everything she never had, and I’m willing to go into hock, to bust my ass, to do whatever it takes to give her everything I can possibly give. That’s how much I love her.”

  Kallum pushed the Braves baseball cap back on his head. “That doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds like Callie wouldn’t marry you unless you did all those things. Callie is a pretty simple person. I’ve never known her to ask for anything. If you want my honest opinion, I’d say all of this is a little overwhelming to her. I don’t think she wanted it or expected it. You can be overwhelming, too, Wyn. You bulldoze ahead and don’t think about the other person.”

  “Look, I’m never going to get married again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing for both of us. I want to do it. Money just isn’t that important to me. I like things, I like giving. I like grandness. That doesn’t mean I’m some kind of . . . of . . .”

  “Jerk will do. While we’re on the subject, don’t you think twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot to spend on a honeymoon?”

  “Hell, yes, it’s a lot. I’m the first to admit it, but again, I want to give Callie the best. I want us to have a memory we’ll never forget.”

  “Why do I have the feeling Callie would have been happy going to Myrtle Beach or Hilton Head for a week? A trip to Hong Kong, followed by Bali, Singapore, and wherever else you’re planning on going to . . . Listen, you never did tell me—did you consult with your wife-to-be, or did you just go ahead and make the plans?”

  “I made the plans,” Wyn muttered. “What’s with this sudden inquisition, Kallum?”

  “I don’t care for the word inquisition, Wyn. I’m concerned. I think I have a right to be concerned. You need to develop more respect for money. I’ve said everything I have to say. When you get back, the purse strings are going to be tightened so hard you’re going to gasp. Is it a deal?”

  “Absolutely,” Wyn said, stretching out his hand. “Listen, if I haven’t told you lately, you are without a doubt the best friend a man could have. I hope we’ll always be business partners and friends. Now, tell me, what’s the latest business gossip?”

  Kallum shrugged. “Everything pretty much slows down in August, as you know.” He wasn’t going to mention Bowdey Jessup’s vacant office. He liked Bode, really liked him. What’s more, he respected the guy.

  Wyn took a deep breath. “Smell the gardenias, Kallum. They’ve bloomed three times this year. Callie’s bridal bouquet is gardenias from Archer Hall.”

  “They make me sneeze,” Kallum grumbled. “My eyes are already starting to itch. I’ll see you at the party. Don’t worry, I’ll recognize you—you’ll be the guy with the sappiest expression.”

  “Oh yeah?” Wyn drawled. “I saw a sappy look on your face when Callie told you you’d be Brie Canfield’s partner. She’s turned into quite a looker. She’s . . .” Wyn’s agile brain struggled for just the right word “. . . earthy. Don’t try any tricks, either. She carries a gun and knows how to use it.”

  “I’ll remember,” Kallum said as he turned off to his own home two miles down the road from Archer Hall.

  Wyn sighed as he slid from the horse and walked him the rest of the way to the stable. Normally he rubbed his horse down himself after a brisk ride, but today he handed him over to the groom, but not before he offered an apple to the gelding. He had just enough time to shower, shave, and drive to Summerville.

  Wyn took time now the way he always did, to look over his house, trying to see it through Callie’s eyes. H
e knew she’d want to redecorate, to get rid of some of the older furnishings, and it was all right with him. Whatever made Callie happy made him happy.

  The windows were tall, with light streaming through the sparkling glass. Now, at this early hour, he could see how faded the brocades and damasks were. It had never bothered him before. Now, it did. The heavy, cumbersome sofas, the spindly, fragile chairs and thick, ugly tables . . . and all his innumerable ancestors, whose names he’d long ago forgotten if he’d ever known them at all, stared back at him from their tarnished silver frames.

  The old photographs would be the first things to go. Callie would set up pictures of their wedding, framed candid shots of her and Sela and Brie. Not Bode. By God, not Bode. New beginnings should be new, not cluttered up with furniture and memories of the past. He could feel a knot form in his neck. Bowdey Jessup belonged in the past the way this old furniture did. He eyed the ancient Victrola and wished he could take the time now to carry it out to the barn. They’d get a CD system. He made a mental note to ask Kallum who he could get to wire the house.

  The house itself was spotless, the heart-of-pine floors gleaming with hundreds of coats of wax. He cursed himself for not having asked Callie what kind of furniture she liked. God, what if she was into Danish modern or Chinese lacquer? Maybe he’d have to help her out, the way he’d helped select the dresses for the wedding party. He did love the purple wisteria that covered the grounds. Kallum had been nagging him for years now to cut it back, for it was choking off all the other plants, especially the priceless camellias. One of these days.

  The staircase was made of ancient oak, polished to a high sheen, the steps covered with a thick carpet. He fondly remembered how he and Callie had slid down the banister, whooping and hollering like ten-year-olds. He’d caught her at the bottom, been delirious with laughter until she’d said how she and Bode used to slide down the banister at Parker Manor almost every day. She said Bode never caught her, though. His happiness had dimmed for a moment.

  He hated Bode Jessup with a passion that was unequaled. These past years he’d tried to control his hatred for Callie’s sake, but every time she brought up his name the fine hairs on the back of Wyn’s neck stood on end. Of all the people in the low country, why did Bode Jessup have to be Callie’s best friend? That, more than anything, was what bothered him. Kallum Trinity liked Bode. So did everyone in Summerville. Brie and Sela adored him. Callie said she loved him like a brother. No one to his knowledge had one bad word to say about Bode Jessup. Even Steven Bryers, who’d had his ass whipped by Bode, had only good things to say about Bode. Steven was a dentist now and boasted all over town that Bode had a perfect set of teeth and had never had a cavity. Christ, according to Bryers he didn’t even have plaque buildup! Pure and simply, he was jealous.

  “Don’t let Bode Jessup spoil your day, Wyn,” he told himself as he mounted the stairs to the second floor. “You got the girl. Bode is out in the cold. Once Callie settles down and becomes a mother, Bode will just be a memory.” He whistled as he shed his clothes, stomping his way through the meadow of carpeting to the huge modern bathroom he’d installed a year ago, complete with Jacuzzi and bidet. How Callie had giggled over that. He rather liked having his butt flushed with warm water.

  He was happy about a lot of things, happy that he’d finally sold the family mansion in Charleston to a family with six children. He was tired of going back and forth at the change of the seasons, and with the monster air-conditioning unit he’d installed he was as happy as a pig in a mudslide. Thank God he hadn’t lived back when the tradition of the low country demanded that one live in Charleston during the winter months and then summer in the piney forests. Something about a swamp fever. Not that he cared diddly-squat about fevers or anything else. This was his home, his niche, and he wasn’t ever going to live anywhere else. His good fortunes were almost an embarrassment. Not that he cared about that either. All he really cared about was Callie and the wonderful life they were going to have. He would give her everything in his power. He would love her as no man ever loved a woman. Together they would have beautiful, wonderful children, two boys who looked like him and two girls who looked like Callie. They’d grow old together, their hair graying, rocking on the oak rockers on the verandah.

  Wyn padded naked out to the cool bedroom, poured two ounces of bourbon into a glass, and took it neat. He sucked on his tongue from the bite and then started to whistle, a popular ditty that made him grin from ear to ear. Thirty minutes later he was dressed in a blue-and-white Brooks Brothers seersucker suit with a crisp white-linen shirt. He stood back to admire his reflection in the mirror. “You, Wynfield Archer, are as handsome as Callie is beautiful.” He laughed uproariously, then sobered when he wondered what Bode would wear to the party and the wedding. Probably jeans, a white shirt, and those god-awful, black, ankle-high Keds sneakers he was born with.

  “Go to hell, Bode Jessup,” he muttered as he downed another ounce of Wild Turkey. He held the glass of powerful bourbon aloft. “To me. To Callie. To politics. To success!”

  On the way to the garage he shook his head to clear it. Maybe he should have a cup of coffee. He had a buzz on, and all because of Bode Jessup. He never drank before four in the afternoon. Never. A quick glance at his watch told him he didn’t have time for a cup of coffee. He’d just have to drive carefully and straddle the white line. He’d be fine as long as he was careful.

  He was sweating when he backed the Cadillac out of the garage. He swore. He should have had the good sense to come out ten minutes earlier to turn on the air-conditioning. The bourbon he’d consumed on an empty stomach was making its presence known. He mopped at his brow with a square of linen that was so expertly stitched and laundered it looked like it came from one of the finest shops in Charleston. He swore again. Now he’d have, to go back into the house for a fresh handkerchief.

  Ten minutes later, Wyn eyed the Cadillac for a moment before he slid behind the wheel. He hated the car, which formerly he had loved. To him it was a badge, a symbol of his prosperity, but once Bode Jessup saw it and had made a derogatory comment in front of a group of businessmen. They had snickered at Bode’s bold tongue. Wyn remembered his words exactly, but refused to give Bode the satisfaction of trading the car in for a foreign model. “It looks like a pimpmobile, Wyn. Did they give it to you, or did you actually pay money for it?” Thank God he’d had the wit to offer a comeback that made the men chuckle. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was he’d said. One of these days he was going to remember. Maybe he’d share the experience with Callie, and then again maybe he wouldn’t.

  The tires squealed on the old brick as Wyn backed the big car around and headed for the road, his thoughts on Bode Jessup and how he was going to have to be polite to the bastard, even shake his hand. Well, hell, he could be magnanimous. After all, he’d gotten the girl. Your loss, Bode. Eat your heart out, you son of a bitch.

  His anger was getting the best of him. He had to control it and ease up on the gas pedal. So what if he was a little late? The minister couldn’t start the rehearsal without him, and Judge Summers couldn’t start the party without the guests of honor. He watched as the needle dropped from seventy to sixty and then to fifty-five. He moved the lever for cruise control and fired up a cigarette.

  Tomorrow was going to be the happiest day of his life. Today was running a very close second. The Reverend Neville said the wedding rehearsal would take twenty minutes; then it was on to the party. Judge Summers and his wife Miss Nela really knew how to throw a party, and the fact that the Judge himself was giving Callie away made it all the more prestigious. The local newspaper would cover the party, and print a glowing article on the soon-to-be Archers—an article Bode would read because it would be on the front page. Anything Judge Summers did made the front page, even if it was a fishing trip or acquiring a new camellia for his garden.

  Aaah, life was wonderful.

  Sela and Brie watched Callie pace the kitchen. She’d already w
alked around the butcher-block table nine times and was on her tenth trip when Sela barked, “Enough already, Callie. What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Wyn is late. Pearl isn’t ready. Pearl’s always ready. I’m starting to sweat. My makeup is ruined. You two have been acting bitchy all day and—”

  “And Bode’s offices are empty,” Brie said quietly.

  Callie’s head jerked upright. “He had no right to hurt Pearl like that. I hate him for doing this. In the whole of my life I never saw Pearl cry, but she cried today. She also told me she is going to stay here until I get back from my honeymoon. She wanted to stay because of Bode. I know it, and he knows it—and what did he do? He stood here, calm as can be, and said . . . and said I don’t have a job and that he was leaving. How could he do that to Pearl? He even had the nerve to bring that damn bike of his and . . . and ask Pearl to store it in the barn! You should have seen her. She treated it like it was made of solid gold. I was watching her. Okay, I was . . . spying. I thought she was going to kiss the damn thing. He made her cry. I’ll never forgive him for that,” Callie spluttered.

  “Looks like he made you cry, too,” Brie said gently.

  “Yes, he did. I would have cried if either one of you said you couldn’t come to my wedding. I thought we were friends! I wanted him at my wedding. Would an extra two days have made all that much difference? He could have taken a flight out right after the wedding. Oh no, he slaps me in the face with this, and he made Pearl cry. Now she’s going to be unhappy with the move and she’ll start to blame me. I know in my heart she doesn’t want to leave. You know how she goes to the cemetery to visit Lazarus’s grave every Sunday. I told her I’d drive her back there, and she said no. If she stayed here, Bode would have taken her. Bode changed all that. I hate him, God, how I hate him for this! Why did he wait till today, the very last minute? It’s unconscionable, that’s what it is,” Callie raged. She was on her thirteenth walk around the butcher-block table.