Scotty never locked the door if he was home, so she walked straight in, wondering as she always did whether Scotty minded that his whole house would fit into a quarter of one floor in the one he grew up in. He was eating lunch—a sandwich and a beer—in the minuscule dining room, the sports section of the paper open beside him.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he inquired without getting up. “Did you bring a check?”
“No, I’ve brought some questions.” She pulled out a chair uninvited. He chomped his way through his sandwich without inviting her to make one, although pastrami, Havarti cheese, rye bread, and jars of pickles sat beside mustard and mayonnaise in plain view on the kitchen counter ten feet away. When her stomach growled, she remembered she hadn’t eaten all day. No wonder she felt giddy.
“I’ve been reading the citations that went with Winnie’s war medals.” She rose and went to the kitchen. The smell of the food almost turned her stomach, but she resolutely slapped mayonnaise on two slices of bread and united them with cheese and pastrami. She opened a Coors from the fridge and brought the food back to the table on a paper-towel plate. “I’ve found something I don’t understand. I was reading his Medal of Honor citation, about how he landed a plane that was almost destroyed, even with his leg badly wounded—”
“Stupid thing to do. Should have parachuted out with the crew.”
“He’d have been abandoning a man whose parachute had burned up.”
Scotty shrugged. “It was war. People died.”
She forced a little laugh. “Winnie told me he got that medal for doing something stupid that people later thought was very brave.”
“Yeah, he did, and he never let people forget it.”
“He never talked about it,” she protested.
“He limped. That was a constant reminder he was better than the rest of us.” Scotty resumed his avid perusal of the sports section.
Bara ate her sandwich and considered the best approach to get what she wanted. “I didn’t come here to fight. I came to find out what happened after that. The citation said he came home in February. Aunt Eloise says—”
“You talked to Eloise? When?” Suddenly she had Scotty’s full attention.
“Just now.”
“You know you can’t count on anything she says.” He had a guarded look in his eyes.
“She was having a good day. She remembered there was an ice storm the weekend Winnie was supposed to come home, and all Mama’s food got spoiled.”
He relaxed and grunted, “Good for Eloise! There was a storm. I’d forgotten that. We were freezing up here while Winnie lounged around a pool in Miami. He always did get the breaks. Their plane couldn’t land with the ice storm, so they got diverted to Florida. We didn’t have power for three days.”
“And Mama’s party food got spoiled?”
He shrugged. “Is that what Eloise said? I guess it’s true. But what would you expect? It took another week for Winnie to get home. Nettie was real put out. She had announced a big do in his honor, but by then people had other plans. I told her Winnie wouldn’t want a welcome-home party, the condition he was in and with the war still going on. Hell, he was on crutches and in a lot of pain.”
“But are you sure he didn’t get home until February?” Bara pressed. “I was born the fifth of September, you know.”
His gaze slid to the window. “I can’t keep track of my own birthday, girl. How do you expect me to remember yours? You needn’t expect a present unless I get paid.”
She couldn’t keep impatience out of her voice. “You’ve never bought me a present in your life. What I want to know is how I got born so soon after my daddy got home.”
“How should I know? I don’t pay attention to things like that.”
“You’d know if I was so premature that they worried about me.”
“Nobody worried about you that year,” he said bluntly. “That came later. Poor Nettie. I don’t know why she put up with it.” He put both hands on the table and used them to lever himself to his feet. “I’m tired. Played nine holes this morning and pulled a shoulder. Had to quit. I need a nap. Don’t bother me with all this. It’s done. Finished.”
“Did Mama—?”
Before she could finish, he slammed a fist on the table. “My sister may not have been perfect, but she put up with you all those years. She was a blessed saint!”
They glared at each other.
“She was no saint.” Bara blazed, snatching up her purse. “You and she fought all the time, she and Winnie fought all the time, and she and Nana—”
“Get out!” He waved one hand angrily. “Don’t come in here saying things about poor Nettie. You’ll never know all she went through for you!”
“What? What did she go through? That’s all I want to know.”
“You must have a very short memory. Drunken brawls, dancing in your underwear—what didn’t she put up with? But what’s done is done. Go home. Get drunk. Eventually you’ll forget. I have.” He lumbered toward his bedroom.
“I’m going,” Bara called after him, “but I may be back.”
She was a mile away before she remembered she had meant to get his key to her house.
Chapter 17
Bara’s sandwich only reminded her stomach how little she had fed it in the past two days. She decided to stop by her house and make a quick omelet before tackling Rita Louise. On the way she finished the bourbon in her flask.
In the kitchen she made a Bloody Mary, then pulled out eggs, butter, and milk. She found no ham, cheese, tomatoes, or mushrooms, but it didn’t matter. She’d already had cheese and wasn’t real fond of vegetables, anyway. She could eat a plain omelet with her Bloody Mary.
She sipped it while she pulled down a cast-iron skillet from a rack near the ceiling, put the pan on the stove, and turned the gas on high. Katharine had turned her electric stove to medium, but Bara was in a hurry.
She took another sip before she broke the eggs into a bowl and added milk. Oops, too much milk. Oh well, milk was good for you. She beat the eggs and poured them into the pan. Saw the butter sitting on the counter and remembered she should have put it in first. Couldn’t be helped. She finished her drink and added a large dollop of butter to the eggs. Salted and peppered the thick yellow mixture and added a few drops of hot sauce. She ought to tell Katharine about hot sauce. It pepped up scrambled eggs.
She fetched bread and made toast. Fixed another Bloody Mary. Found a plate, some silverware, and wondered where the hell her cook had kept the napkins.
As she yanked off a paper towel to use instead, she smelled smoke, and looked around to see the eggs sending up signals over the stove. She snatched up the iron frying pan and blistered her palm on the handle. Dropped the skillet on the floor, cracking a ceramic tile. “Damn and blast it!” she shouted. The eggs remained firmly in the pan.
Leaving the mess on the floor and the gas on high, she downed the Bloody Mary in three gulps, put ice on her burn, and headed out to find some decent food.
When she saw a Starbucks, she pulled in and bought a cup of coffee. It was a lot stronger than she. It practically walked from the counter to her table. Her limbs felt like string.
She stared into the cup and thought of days when she had eaten delicious meals without a thought for what went into preparing them, when she had spent twenties as casually as if they were pennies. Now she counted pennies as if they were dollars and nobody cared if she starved.
She felt tears of self-pity welling in her eyes, but blinked them away. She would not cry. Foley would not make her cry.
Wait! She still had Winnie’s cash in her pocketbook. How could she have forgotten?
She went to the counter to get a big blueberry muffin, but when she tried to pay with a hundred-dollar bill, the cashier shook her head. “Honey, I can’t change that. Haven’t you got anything smaller?”
Bara found enough change for one piece of biscotti. She dipped the hard pastry in her coffee and wished she had eaten more at Scot
ty’s. Wished she had watched more carefully when Katharine was making that omelet. Wished somebody she knew would come in, so she could hit them up for change or a muffin. Wished she had refilled the flask and brought it in with her.
That was what she really wished.
She drained her cup and pulled herself to her feet. She would go see if Ann Rose or Nettie’s other friends knew anything, then she might as well see Rita Louise and get it over with.
However, Rita Louise was not a woman she liked to confront on an empty stomach. She would need a drink before she went over. Maybe two. She stopped at a liquor store and bought an entire case of her favorite brand of bourbon. “Having a party,” she explained, even though they hadn’t asked. Sensible people, they had no problem with hundred-dollar bills.
Two hours later, exhausted, she drove into the dark private garage that was part of Rita Louise’s condominium. She pulled her Jag into a far corner, and unscrewed the cap off one of her new bottles. She needed a drink before she went upstairs. Maybe two. In the end, she drank half a bottle. She needed to work up her courage before she entered the lion’s den.
Rita Louise’s condominium faced west, over the treetops of Buckhead. “Look,” she said to Bara, pointing from her terrace. “Those trees are in the yard of the house where I grew up.”
Buckhead was covered in trees, and they all looked alike to Bara. Besides, the height of the terrace was making her dizzy.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, her tongue thick and unruly. “Inside. It’s too hot to sit out here today.”
Rita Louise’s nostrils flared in distaste, but she led the way through French doors to her exquisite living room. It was small but elegant, decorated in gray, cream, and rose, to complement Rita Louise’s silver hair, pink cheeks, and blue eyes.
Bara stumbled as she followed, caught an armchair to steady herself. Since the chair was there, she sat. No point in walking farther than she had to.
Rita Louise, pretty in a pink pantsuit, sat on her rose brocade sofa.
Bara, in her black pantsuit, felt like a crow. Or a buzzard.
When Bara didn’t immediately speak, Rita Louise leaned forward and said gently, “I understand you are having some”—she paused delicately, for the subject was not one that ladies discuss—“a little financial difficulty lately, dear.”
Bara barked a laugh. “You might say that, considering that Foley has screwed me to the wall and locked up every asset I own.” She thought, wonder of wonders, that Rita Louise was going to pry open her frozen purse strings and offer her a loan.
Rita Louise’s voice dropped further, so that Bara could barely hear. “I would be willing to buy that Louis Tiffany lamp, Bara. For your sake and in memory of your dear mother.”
Bara stared. “I don’t want to sell my lamp. It was Nana’s. Besides, Foley has put it on the inventory. I can’t sell a thing in the house until we get this divorce mess sorted out.”
“Have you had the lamp appraised?”
“Everything in the house has been appraised except me. I’m the only worthless thing there.” She tried another laugh, but it caught in her throat.
“Would Foley notice if one lamp was missing?”
“Foley would notice if one grain of sugar was missing. I think he prowls the house counting up the dollars while I’m asleep.”
“Well, if you could agree to sell the lamp…”
“We can’t agree on a blessed thing right now, and I’m not selling anything Nana left me. They are all I have of her, and the most precious things I own.”
With obvious disappointment Rita Louise sat back against her cushions and contemplated Bara with distaste. When she frowned at Bara’s nails, Bara clenched her hands in her lap.
“I came to talk to you about Mother. I discovered something this morning that has upset me considerably. I hope you might be able to clear it up for me.”
Rita Louise sat, a queen granting an audience, waiting for Bara to complete her petition.
Bara explained about finding the medals, taking them to Katharine’s, and reading the citation that went with her father’s Medal of Honor. She knew she was taking a long time with the story. Some of the words tied up her tongue. A few times Rita Louise made a slight motion of impatience. But Bara was having a hard time making herself come to the point. Finally she blurted out her problem.
“If Daddy didn’t get home until February, then either I came awfully early, or—”
Rita Louise’s eyes were chips of flint. “What are you suggesting?”
“That Winnie wasn’t my father. How could he have been?”
Rita Louise drew herself even more erect. “That is not a thing you ought to question.”
“I have to question it, unless I was born far too early. Was I? Is that why I was slow?”
“You were never slow, dear. You were very bright.”
“I had to stay back a year. Was that because I was born early?”
Rita Louise pursed her lips like a drawstring purse. “You weren’t born in Atlanta. Your parents were living in New York. Besides, we did not discuss things like that back then. People had a sense of decency, and privacy.”
“Bull!” Bara said bluntly. “She told you all about Art’s birth one afternoon. How he wouldn’t turn and she was in agony for hours—”
“Eavesdropping, Bara?” Ice dripped from every word.
“No, reading behind the couch when you all came in. Please help me, Aunt Rita Louise.” The childhood name came out unbidden and desperate. “If Winnie came home in February—“
Rita Louise leaned over and patted her hand. “It was a long time ago, dear. It’s all over and done with now.”
The pat, both gentle and patronizing, raised Bara’s temper to the flash point. “It’s not over and done with! I’m still here, and I deserve to know the truth. Who was my father? Who was Nettie sleeping with while Winnie was at war?”
Those words were the dam that had held back the tears. They gushed down her cheeks and scalded the burned hand she held up to conceal them. Sobs of frustration shook her—frustration with Rita Louise, with Eloise, with Scotty, with the eggs, with Starbucks, with Katharine for discovering the truth, and most of all with Winnie and Nettie for keeping such a horrendous secret between them. “I have to know,” she sobbed over and over. “I have to know.”
Rita Louse sat like a stone. Her maid came to the door, but Rita Louise gave an imperious wave, and she melted back into the recesses of the condo. Bara scarcely noticed. She was consumed by grief.
When Bara’s sobs subsided, Rita Louise said, “You never appreciated your mother. She was a fine person and did much good in this city. But all your life you quarreled with her, rebelled against her, and broke her heart with your shenanigans. Now you come here speaking slurs against her good name after she sacrificed more for you than you will ever know.”
“I want to know.” Bara raised her ravaged face. “I need to know. What did she sacrifice for me? Was Winnie my father?”
“Of course he was your father. He raised you, supported you—now stop slandering your mother’s good name and leave, please. I want you to go.” Rita Louise reached for her cane and maneuvered herself into a standing position.
Bara stood, too, none too steady on her feet. “I am not trying to slander Mother’s name. I am trying to find out who I am.”
“You are who you make yourself.” Rita Louise inclined her head toward the door.
“Was it Father John?” Bara barked. “Or don’t you know?”
Rita Louise raised a hand and slapped her. One of her rings left a long scratch on Bara’s cheek. “Get out of my house!” She lifted the cane to point, lost her balance, and sank to the sofa, so pale that her lipstick looked like a swipe of blood on her face. “Get out!”
Bara headed to the door. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than this. And you aren’t done with me. I’m going to tear this town apart until I find out what I want to know.”
Bara took the slowe
st elevator in creation down to the parking garage and lunged for her car. Inside, she twisted the top off the half-empty bottle and lifted it to her lips. When she finished that one, she opened another. Next thing she knew, she was slumped in the front seat of her car and the parking garage was lit by soft orange lights. She started the car and checked the clock on the dash. Ten o’clock? Where had the day gone? She was losing a lot of hours lately.
Two empty bottles lay on the carpet with one half-empty one. She got back out and lugged the case of liquor to the trunk. It was a crime to drive with open liquor in your car, and she couldn’t afford to get arrested.
Chapter 18
Katharine had been startled but relieved by Bara’s abrupt departure. She had done what she had agreed to do. Bara could handle the rest of her problems. Katharine had problems of her own—starting with the fact that she had to spend the rest of the day shopping.
By the time Hollis arrived, she had reached a decision. “I will not waste a lot of money on stuff I don’t really want. Let’s hit Goodwill and the Salvation Army.”
“Works for me.” One of Posey’s complaints about her youngest daughter was that Hollis bought most of her clothes and a good bit of her décor at thrift stores. “When she has perfectly good credit cards at Bloomingdale’s, Nordstrom, and Neiman Marcus.”
Hollis held out two sheets of paper. “This is a list of surfaces that need something on them.”
Katharine stared in dismay. “Alternatively, why don’t we call Bloomingdale’s, have them deliver every knickknack in stock, and spend our day by the pool?”
“Very funny. This is for downstairs, of course. I thought for upstairs we’d buy small frames for family pictures and set them around. For now, anyway. You do still have some pictures, don’t you?”
“Photographs.” Katharine’s eyes went automatically to the dining-room arch. From the front hall she used to be able to see oil portraits of Jon and Susan when they were very small. They had been slashed to ribbons by her vandals. That loss was still her keenest.
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