Tucker sends his love.
XX OO
Bitsy
Shortly after April Fool’s Day, my mother-in-law stopped by my house with a bottle of Dom Perignon. She wore a brown tweed suit, and her dark hair was pulled back with an Hermès scarf—the colors in the scarf complementing the tweed. She carried a Chanel bag, and a manila envelope was tucked under her arm.
“I’m so glad to see you up and about,” she told me, kissing the air beside my ear. Her perfume smelled spicy, fruity. “I know you’re just thrilled to be out of bed.”
“Yes.” I smiled down at my bulging abdomen.
“And I love how the house is coming together.” She turned around in the foyer, and her diamond earrings caught light from the chandelier. She handed me the bottle. “You’ll learn to love this—well, after the baby’s born. When are you due?”
“July thirty-first.”
“That’s a stifling hot month to have a baby, but thank God you’ve got central air. Is Louie just beside himself over the baby? Is he home, by the way?”
“No, ma’am.” I said. “He’ll be in surgery most of the morning.”
“Good. That gives us time to chat.”
We stepped into the large, rectangular living room and stopped in front of a French credenza that Louie and I had bought in the Quarter. “Oh, this is lovely,” Honora said. “And your draperies are divine. Are they Cowtan and Tout or Brunschwig?”
“Cowtan and Tout,” I said, a little surprised.
“But isn’t that fabric only available through interior designers?”
I decided not to mention my diploma from Ha’vard.
“I bought that darling Osborne & Little fabric I have in one of my guest rooms through my dear friend, Sister DeBenedetto. She’s not a nun, in case you’re wondering. She’s the leading designer in New Orleans. We were roommates at Newcomb a thousand years ago. Why don’t I just bring Sister by one afternoon? You’ll love her—and her fabrics.”
Honora walked around the room, prattling about Sister and the antiques the two of them had brought back from Normandy. I nodded politely and tried to seem interested. I put the champagne bottle on a burled table and laid a protective hand over my stomach. I thought I felt something move—a foot? When my mother-in-law paused, I jumped into the conversation. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve been looking forward to decorating the rest of the house myself. It’s a long way from being finished, but I want to take my time.”
Louie’s mother gave me a shrewd look. “Oh, I didn’t mean for Sister to do your house. Rather, I thought you might work with her one or two days a week. After the baby’s here, of course. Perhaps she’ll take you on as a junior partner or something like that. She’s got the sweetest shop on Royal? I’m only saying this because a job might help you cope with Louie’s long absences. The boy is a notorious workaholic. Well, I guess you already know that.”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure do,” I said. The notion of working in the French Quarter held a bit of charm, but I knew that once the baby arrived, no power on earth—even the lure of a famous designer—would make me leave home.
“I know my son.” She frowned. “I’m afraid it won’t get any better.”
“No, ma’am. Would you like some coffee?”
“Bourbon, if you’ve got it.” She sat down on a jade damask sofa, so new the tags were still attached. She lifted one and made a small, approving noise. “This room is gorgeous. Your taste is exquisite. You’ll love working with Sister. Have you done anything with the master bedroom?”
“Not yet.”
“One word of advice,” she said, laughing. “Never put a man in a room with a flowery bedspread, or he’ll feel compelled to prove his masculinity. I’m speaking from experience, you understand. Louie’s father was a bit of a rogue.”
“I’ve asked Louie to pick out the bedroom colors and fabrics,” I said.
“You clever puss.”
While I poured the drink, she set the envelope on the coffee table. I wondered what was inside—fabric samples? Legal documents? We chatted a bit more about Sister and her famous clients: a British rock star; a TV chef; a former Miss America. Then Honora began talking about one of her house guests, Isabella D’Agostino. “Back in the sixties, she was a Hollywood star who specialized in playing rich, spoiled bitches. She co-starred with Rock Hudson, James Garner, and Doris Day. After her career dried up, she came to the Coast and I introduced her to the wealthiest man in Mobile, Dickie Boy McGeehee. He died, and Isabella moved into one of my guest rooms to spend the weekend, and she’s been there off and on ever since.”
She set her empty glass on a coaster and lit a cigarette. Then she reached for the envelope and spilled out Xeroxed papers. “I hesitate to show you these things when you’re expecting a baby,” she began, “but I didn’t know what else to do.”
I leaned forward and read a headline—FUGITIVE IN CUSTODY, KIDNAPPED CHILDREN REUNITED WITH LOVED ONES. I felt something drop inside my chest, and I sank back against the pillows.
“W-who sent those?”
“Some anonymous troublemaker—there wasn’t a return address or a postmark. The evildoer left the envelope in my mailbox.”
I nodded, feeling tears burn the backs of my eyes.
Louie’s mother stared down at her cigarette, smoke drifting above her fingers. “Darlin’, I hate to ask, but does Louie know?”
“Yes.” Tears slid down my cheeks. “Everything.”
She gave me a long, penetrating look. “Do you know who’d want to cause you trouble?”
I shook my head, but offhand I could think of at least eight prime suspects, all drawn from the Wentworth and Saylor clans. Although it could have been a disgruntled diner from the Green Parrot, or one of my former “friends.” Still, I couldn’t imagine any of them driving down to Mobile Bay and putting the clippings in my mother-in-law’s mailbox.
She leaned forward, smoke curling above her head. “Did you really kidnap those children?”
I began in a halting voice to tell her the story. When I finished, she blew a smoke ring and said, “You know, I remember it vaguely. A young mother was caught with her baby on the roof of her car. I was actually in Point Minette that whole fall—it was seventy-two, right? I was going to a chiropractor. It’s such a sweet town, isn’t it? I must have passed by that boardinghouse a hundred times. Did you know it’s been turned into a bed and breakfast? The old woman sold it to a man from Charleston, and he’s fixed it up. Just a darling place. I never dreamed—”
She paused and I finished the sentence. “Dreamed you’d end up with a criminal daughter-in-law? I’m so sorry. I should have told you myself. You must be disgusted.”
“No, no. You didn’t let me go on. I was going to say that I never dreamed our paths would cross. You know me, I’m partial to damaged women. I take them in.”
I did know that. Shelby DeChavannes and Renata had been living with Honora for the past month. Whenever Louie drove to Point Clear to fetch his daughter, he went alone, and my imagination had gotten the best of me. Not that I had any proof. It was just a feeling. I looked up at Honora and said, “I’m probably overstepping myself here. And I know it’s none of my business, but I’ve got to know something.”
“Yes?” She leaned forward, brown eyes alert. Smoke drifted over her head in a comma.
I folded my hands and squeezed them, hard. This wasn’t going to be easy. I was definitely prying, and my mother-in-law wouldn’t appreciate it. “Does Shelby still love my husband? Does she want him back?”
She looked startled. She stubbed out her cigarette, then lit another.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have asked.” Calm down, I told myself. Hadn’t she just said that she was drawn to damaged women? With Aunt Clancy, it was cats. And my mother-in-law also had an enormous collection of designer handbags. Violet had once said there was a fine line separating collectors from compulsives. I myself walked that line, because I shared the handbag fetish, and
Louie was spoiling me with outrageously expensive shoes. When my feet began to swell, Louie would just take me down to Maison-Blanche and buy me more in larger sizes.
“Nonsense. You have every right to know.” Her mouth slanted downward. “My son can be such a naughty boy—just like his father. So when Shelby asked if she and Renata could stay with me, I was happy to oblige. And it was a good thing, because Shelby has been suffering from a terrible depression. But…can I speak candidly?”
I nodded.
“When I first met you, I hadn’t the foggiest notion about your earlier…escapades. And even though I liked you very much, I thought you were probably an opportunistic little piece of fluff who’d snagged my son. Louie can be quite dense when it comes to women. I honestly thought—oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Right at the time you came into Louie’s life, he and Shelby were on the verge of reconciling. He’d invited her to Jamaica, but Renata came down with a bad cold, and Shelby wouldn’t leave her. And then Louie met you.”
I flinched.
“He didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head.
“I’m not surprised.” She paused and blew another smoke ring. “Do you know what? I believe that it’s time for Shelby to move on with her life. In fact, I know just the man for her. I’m a terrible plotter, but I do mean well. Never mind all that. I owe you an apology. I was too quick to judge you, and I’m sorry. You’ve got more spunk than Louie’s other wives. Did you really break your ex’s nose and knock him unconscious?”
“Yes. With frozen baby back ribs.”
“Oh, dear. Well, from what you say, he had it coming to him.” She smiled and lit another cigarette. “But you and I will get along splendidly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Honora.” She rose from the sofa, walked over to the fireplace, and tossed the clippings onto the empty grate. Then she dropped her cigarette on the papers. “Now,” she said. “May I see the rest of what you’ve done with the house?”
FROM THE TIMES-PICAYUNE
—May 21, 1979
Ms. Shelby Stevens DeChavannes and Randolph Filbert Van Dusen III were married on May 21, 1979, at two o’clock in the afternoon at the home of Mrs. Honora DeChavannes in Point Clear, Alabama. Reverend Dale Newbury officiated. Goldie Hawn served as matron of honor in absentia and James Caan served as best man in absentia. The bride’s daughter, Miss Renata DeChavannes, served as flower girl.
Guests included Mrs. Honora DeChavannes of Point Clear, Alabama, and Pass Christian, Mississippi; Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Filbert Van Dusen Jr. of Brentwood, California; Isabella D’Agostino-McGeehee of Beverly Hills, California, and Point Clear, Alabama; Senator and Mrs. James “Bubba” Bradent of Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Dr. and Mrs. Chaz Breaux; Dr. and Mrs. Martin Addison; T. S. Talmage; Beverly Shantrell; Dr. and Mrs. Jordan Theroux; Mrs. Vernon St. Clair, all of Point Clear, Alabama; Dr. and Mrs. James DeChavannes, of Pass Christian, Mississippi; Dr. and Mrs. Niles DeChavannes, of Gulfport, Mississippi; Miss Mary Agnes DeChavannes, of Pass Christian, Mississippi.
After a honeymoon in Tuscany, the couple will reside in Malibu, California, where the groom is an executive vice president at Van Dusen Films, Inc.
Clancy Jane & Violet
Violet Jones and George Abernathy
Invite you to their Wedding on June Twenty-Third
Nineteen Hundred Seventy-Nine at Seven o’clock in the evening
First Unitarian Chapel
Memphis, Tennessee
Reception following at Peabody Hotel
In lieu of gifts, please send a donation to
The American Psychiatric Foundation
Violet walked down the aisle wearing a white silk shantung pantsuit, culled from the bargain rack at Rich’s Department Store. She reached up to adjust her floppy straw hat—a last-minute find at Goodwill Industries, complete with a rumpled grosgrain ribbon and old-fashioned veil. She and George had decided no bouquet, bridesmaids, or best man and no schmaltzy piano music. Looking over her shoulder, she nodded to a guy with long black hair, whose hand was poised over a rather elaborate PA system. He pushed a button, and Queen began to belt out “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”
A side door opened, and the groom stepped out, followed by the minister. Both men had chosen unorthodox clothing—George wore faded jeans and Earth shoes, the minister a black, floor-length cape. Violet strode toward them, stopping beside each pew for a little tête-à-tête with friends and family. A guy in a white intern’s jacket kissed her cheek and handed her a long-stemmed rose. When she reached the DeChavannes’s pew, Violet lifted the rose and, in the manner of a fairy godmother waving a wand, tapped Dr. DeChavannes on the head; then she hugged Bitsy, exclaiming over her cousin’s frothy blue chiffon maternity dress. When she reached the front of the chapel, she gave the thumbs-up signal to Dorothy, Mack, and Earlene, then she smiled at her future in-laws. George’s parents didn’t respond. His father looked stonily ahead; his mother pressed both hands over her nose and mouth, her fingers forming a tent. She appeared to be either praying or hyperventilating.
Violet stopped beside her mother’s pew. She made a fist and socked Tucker’s arm, then grabbed Clancy Jane’s hand. They walked to the altar and faced the minister. He opened The Book of Common Prayer and said, “Who’s giving this chick away?”
“I am,” Clancy Jane said, steering Violet toward George.
Violet reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled paper, held it aloft, and read an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem. George’s turn was a little more lively, having elected to recite Carl Sandburg from memory. Instead of promising to love each other, they pledged to give each other room to grow, with “no ties that bind.” The minister smiled and said, “You’re hitched. Dig it?”
Clancy Jane had wanted a room with a romantic view of the Mississippi River, but the window looked out onto a gravel roof and the other half of the Peabody Hotel. Tucker went down to the front desk and sweet-talked the clerk into switching them to a room just below the penthouse. Clancy Jane opened the draperies. The dark water appeared oily under the lit-up bridge. How did they change the burned-out bulbs? she wondered. The river made her think of that old song by Creedence Clearwater Revival. She pulled off her clothes, trying to cool off, and threw herself onto the king-size bed. Then she looked at Tucker. He was a pretty man, his dark hair cut short, in the armed-forces style. He wore a St. Christopher’s medal around his neck. All the firemen did, he said. It would keep him safe.
He crossed the room and climbed on the bed, his right knee between her legs. His medal swung back and forth, brushing against her breasts. She tugged on his belt, pulling him closer. He moved on top of her. Proud Mary keep on rolling, she thought. Rolling down the river.
“I love how we fit,” he said.
“Are you comparing me to the ill-fits in your life?” Clancy Jane traced her finger around his lips. “Short women whose little heads didn’t quite reach your chin? Or tall ladies with real long necks, and you’d climb up on them like a fly crawling on a calla lily?”
“You’re an original, Clancy Jane.”
“Do you know how much I love you?”
“Yes” he said. “But keep on telling me.”
Bitsy
The clock radio clicked on, and the room filled with Jimmy Buffett’s voice. He was singing “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes.” Keeping my eyes closed, I began to sing, mixing up the lyrics, changing latitudes to lassitude. The baby kicked, as if lodging a protest. “I’m sorry, darling. Your mama can’t carry a tune,” I whispered. Then I slid my leg over to Louie’s side of the bed, finding nothing but cold linen. This is a sign, I thought. Empty bed, empty heart. He is leaving me. He is running off with a flat-bellied woman. I suddenly flashed back to the scene in the alley behind Le Cordon Bleu in Point Minette.
I sat up, looked out the window. It was going to be another hot July afternoon in New Orleans, one hundred degrees, no rain in the forecast. Last week, during the sonogram,
my doctor had pointed to the screen. “The fetus is in breech position, too late for him to turn.”
“Him?”
“See? There’s the penis.” The doctor pointed. Then he’d moved the wand lower. “But over here, your placenta is too low. It’s not a previa, so don’t get alarmed, but it’s attached very low on the uterine wall. Better get Louie mentally prepared for a C-section.” Get Louie prepared?
From the kitchen, he was calling me. “Bitsy, are you coming? We’re going to be late.”
“One second!” I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. I didn’t want to be late for Honora’s birthday party in Point Clear. I hurried in the bathroom and yanked a black maternity smock off a hanger, then flung it over my head. The dress smelled of perspiration and perfume—Robert Piaget’s Bandit. Inside the maternity smock, the aromas were suffocating, and I began to panic. The more I struggled, the more tangled I became. With a desperate shove, I pushed my head through the opening. When I saw my reflection in the dresser mirror—the gargantuan belly, the navel pushed out like a valve on an inner tube—I grimaced. The dress was still bunched up around my neck, resembling a frilled Elizabethan collar, and my queen-size pantyhose were tight and glossy from the strain. I pulled the dress down, painfully mashing my breasts. My hair was carelessly braided down my back, and short strands had escaped, frizzing around my temples. In disgust, I flipped one hand at the mirror, then reached along my back, groping for the zipper. I grabbed it, sawed it up and down, wincing as the zipper rasped over bare skin.
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