by Vicki Lane
“Good, I can hear you perfectly now and thank god! I’m about to go out of my mind—the tedious things they talk about here—chickens and gardens … Oh, that reminds me: you remember I told you that Amanda Lucas … you know, Lawrence and Ronnie’s daughter … well, she’s Ben’s live-in girlfriend … yes, the gorgeous blonde who used to be a model … Would you believe she’s given all that up to be a gardener—making gardens for some of the people moving into this area … Yes, she designs them but she gets involved in all of it … digging in the dirt, weeding … She came in the other night all sunburned and filthy … Well, it would break her mother’s heart to see—
“… no, Ben has a cabin—really a shack—though the way he and Elizabeth carry on about its history, you’d think it was—what’s-its-name—Tara from Gone With the Wind … Oh, I don’t remember the details—something to do with a grave Ben found when he was—god, I can’t believe I’m telling you this—digging a hole for an outhouse.”
Gloria held the phone away from her ear. An explosion of laughter sounded in the quiet of the dining room.
“Don’t be crude. Of course, there’s indoor plumbing here in Lizzy’s house. You can’t imagine I’d … No, but not in Ben’s shack … I offered to pay to have plumbing installed for him but he just went on and on about being too near the creek and drain fields and gray water till I said, ‘That’s just fine, Benjamin. If it’s your choice to live in Third World squalor, then so be it …’
“No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t been able to spend much time yet with Ben—he’s always busy with the farmwork. I swear, he might as well be a slave. I offered to take them all out for dinner tonight but Lizzy had planned a big family dinner—my niece Laurel, that’s Elizabeth’s younger daughter, came out from Asheville and there was Ben and Amanda and Elizabeth and her fiancé Phillip …
“Oh yes, he’s living here full-time now with my saintly sister; I almost fell over when Lizzy told me; she’s always seemed so … he’s a cop … well, with the sheriff’s department … kind of quiet … I think he looks Italian—dark skin and eyes, big shoulders … kind of heavyset but not fat … Of course he’s not my type, Brice—he’s balding! …
“No … no … but I have to say that there’s something in the way he looks at my sister sometimes … Oh, Brice, you’re awful!
“Anyhoo, here I am all by my lonesome. Everyone’s gone to bed but me—you wouldn’t believe the hours they keep … Hush now, don’t say things like that …
“I thought you’d met Lizzy … Well, maybe not, it has been several years since she came back to Tampa … and when she did come down, she never wanted to go anywhere, not even to the club for lunch … oh, she’s presentable—but no clothes sense at all and she wears her hair …
“Dark brown, but, I’m sorry to say, starting to show some gray and she won’t even consider doing anything about it. And she wears it in a long braid down her back. Or, if she’s getting what she calls dressed up, she’ll wrap the braid around her head like some Scandinavian milkmaid … No, we’re very different—I take after Mother, who was petite, and Lizzy’s tall like our father … and of course, she’s older than I am.”
Gloria giggled. “You big flatterer … you always did know how to get to me … Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I’m here and you’re there … I wouldn’t want to keep you up after your bedtime …”
As she listened, however, her smile faded and her face grew serious. Finally she broke in. “Really, Brice … I meant what I told you that last time … Yes, you’ve been a good friend to me—and more than a friend. I know I can count on you …
“I’ll let you go now but can I give you a call tomorrow—about this time? … You’re literally my only link to civilization … No, this is a new phone—different number. I tossed the old one in the bay before I left Tampa for fear that Jerry could somehow trace me if I had it with me … I thought so … Well, I’ll let you go … Till tomorrow then … Me too.”
Gloria flipped the little phone shut, then held it between her hands as if drawing strength from it. She stared into the darkness beyond the dining room window. Then, with a deep sigh, she allowed her body to sag.
Was this a huge mistake? I had to make up my mind in such a hurry … I didn’t really think it through. How long am I going to have to stay here? If it weren’t that this is the very last place in the world Jerry would think to look for me … and that this cop friend of Elizabeth’s may come in handy … I wonder … Maybe I could get an apartment in Asheville … at least there’d be cable … Lizzy’s idea of entertainment … What was that weird movie they put on after supper tonight … a cartoon, of all things … something about triplets … three old hags … and in French. And there’s Elizabeth and that cop of hers holding hands like a pair of lovesick teenagers. Doesn’t she understand how utterly ridiculous …
Gloria pondered the enigma that was her sister. Elizabeth’s husband Sam had been killed in a plane crash back in 1999, and it had looked as if she intended to remain a grieving widow forever. Then Phillip Hawkins had come on the scene—was it three years ago? Elizabeth’s infrequent letters hadn’t mentioned him at first. But Ben had let slip something about an old friend of Sam’s who was evidently very interested in the widow Goodweather. And eventually, in her letters or in their phone conversations, Elizabeth had begun to mention “Sam’s friend Phillip Hawkins.” This had slowly changed to “my friend Phillip,” then just “Phillip,” and at last, a few months ago, the casual mention of plans for a wedding in June.
Glancing at the elegant little watch on her wrist, Gloria made a face. Ten o’clock! If I get in bed now, I’ll just lie there and stare at the ceiling … Maybe there’s a decent magazine to look at …
The chest in front of the sofa offered two hefty stacks of periodicals and she began to go through them. Backyard Poultry, Countryside, The Herbalist, were rejected, as were The New Yorker and Smithsonian. A newspaper—The Marshall County Guardian—caught her eye and she paged through it briefly.
God! I’m trapped in a place where it’s a front-page headline when a double-wide catches fire.
Pausing at an ad for a tanning and beauty salon, Gloria clicked her tongue in disapproval at the photo of the owner/stylist—a middle-aged woman with Dolly Parton hair surrounding a haggard face—and reached up to pat at her own carefully arranged coiffure.
Tomorrow I’ll spend the day in Asheville. Another day out here with Lizzy and I’ll go stark raving bonkers. I’ll get something to read and some Perrier—they all carry on about how wonderful the water is here but I don’t trust water that comes out of the ground. And I’ll have my hair done—what was the name of that place Eleanor raved about when she visited Asheville? The Kindest Cut—that was it.
Tossing the newspaper back onto the chest, Gloria went to Elizabeth’s tall secretary and found a notepad and pen. She seated herself, clicked on the desk lamp, and began a list.
“How was your day? Did you like Asheville?” Elizabeth glanced up from the stove where she was stirring something in a giant wok.
Gloria noticed, with a dainty wrinkling of her nose, that her sister hadn’t bothered with an apron and that several grease spatters had marked her shirt. Though with that faded old rag, I guess it hardly matters. You’d think, though, she could at least make an effort …
Phillip put down the knife he had been using to chop broccoli stems and moved to the refrigerator. “Can I get you a glass of white wine, Gloria?”
“A glass of wine would be lovely,” she answered, flashing him her most radiant smile before brushing the cushions of the bench at the end of the kitchen free of dog hair. Phillip wasn’t her type but it never hurt to let a man know that he was appreciated—something Elizabeth didn’t seem to understand.
As Phillip handed her the wineglass, she let her fingers brush against his and smiled up at him from under her eyelashes—that special intimate glance that Princess Diana had used so well—but when he turned back to his kitchen chores withou
t any response, Gloria sank down onto the bench, grateful to be off her feet. Perhaps, she thought as she slipped off her heels, the red Jimmy Choos hadn’t been the very best choice for a day of shopping in Asheville—which had turned out to be unexpectedly hilly.
And then moving all those packages out of her little Mini and into the Jeep—Quel schlep! as her friend Eleanor would say. She had counted on getting the Mexican help to do that for her but oh, no, they had been pulling out of the driveway just as she returned. Typical.
“Did you find the beauty parlor you were looking for?” Elizabeth dumped a bowl of chopped vegetables into the sizzling wok and whisked them around in a colorful swirl. The smell of garlic and ginger filled the air.
“Well, if you’d look up from cooking for half a minute …” Gloria preened, turning her head to display freshly highlighted hair gleaming in subtle striations of bronze, copper, and gold, “… you’d see that I obviously did. And I have to say that I was very pleasantly surprised. Nigel is a real artist—far better than I expected in a place the size of Asheville. Of course, he’s from England—he trained with Sassoon.”
“Sigfried Sassoon?” Elizabeth asked with an air of innocent surprise. “The World War I poet? But I thought—”
“Vidal, you backwoods frump, Vidal Sassoon, only the most important stylist—oh, I see that look. You know who I’m talking about—you’re just trying to annoy me, aren’t you, Lizzy?”
Gloria turned to Phillip. He had taken a seat on the other bench and was watching the two with somewhat alarmed amusement. “I tried to talk Lizzy into going with me—my treat, of course—but I couldn’t make a bit of headway with her. You’d be amazed at the change a decent hairdo could make in her looks. She was actually rather striking as a young woman with her dark hair and blue eyes. Nigel could get rid of the gray and give her an attractive cut, something more suitable for a woman of her age. What do you think, Phillip? I say it’s a shame to see a woman let herself go—”
“ ‘Let herself go’ … what does that remind me of?” Elizabeth’s voice, brimming with malicious innocence, broke in on her sister’s harangue. “Something … what was the name of the workshop you took last year—out in California, wasn’t it?”
She continued to stir the vegetable mélange, crinkling her brow as if making an effort to remember. “A fancy spa and a very expensive workshop—you emailed me all about it. You said it was led by someone who’d studied with a famous Tibetan lama and that it was life-changing for you. What was the name … oh, now I remember—Letting Go of Self. So, how’s that working out for you, Glory?”
Chapter 4
To Be Fair
Monday, May 14
She really does bring out the worst in me!
I sprawled at one end of the sofa, just breathing in the silence. The day’s mail lay unopened in my lap. The dishes had been done—to the unwelcome accompaniment of Gloria’s repeated protestations that only a dishwasher could get them really clean, along with dire warnings about salmonella and hepatitis C, not to mention leprosy and possibly dengue fever. Phillip had made several trips out to the Jeep to bring in the fruits of Gloria’s day in Asheville—shopping bag after shopping bag as well as assorted groceries—including skim milk, half-and-half, Greek yogurt, and a case of little green bottles of Perrier.
Now, at last, we had settled down to our individual pursuits. Gloria was in the guest room, sorting through her non-food purchases—and judging from the shopping bags, it had been a busy and expensive day. Phillip was in the little office, busy with his never-ending cop stuff/paperwork. As for me, I was happy with the quiet doggy company of Molly, stretched out on the sofa beside me, and sweet, shaggy black Ursa, sleeping at my feet.
That was another thing. Gloria was not a dog person. Oh, she pretended—talking to them in high-pitched baby talk and dispensing cautious pats when they came in range—even actually picking up James and holding him like a baby. But you could tell … For their part, Molly and Ursa seemed to have summed her up as harmless, if a little odd.
To be fair, I think she actually does like James. He’s such a little suck-up—he loves the baby talk and the cuddling. He’s probably back there with her now, exerting his canine wiles.
To be fair. That was the problem. Could I be fair? After a childhood spent playing “the tall plain one” to Gloria’s petite prettiness, I’d taught myself to dismiss my sister as a ditz in high heels, a poster child for conspicuous consumption, a walking dumb blonde joke.
But I had to admit she wasn’t the total airhead that she seemed. She had actually been quite clever in arranging her “getaway”—leaving a note for Jerry saying that she would be gone for a month, that there’d been a last-minute vacancy at an exclusive spa in Arizona where she’d been on a waiting list.
“And they’re very careful about their clients’ privacy at Horizon d’Or,” she’d told me. “If Jerry were to call to see if I was there, they wouldn’t tell him. Brice—he’s a friend of mine who’s a cosmetic surgeon—Brice told me that lots of celebrities go there after they’ve had work done and the staff absolutely will not confirm whether someone is there or not. Jerry can curse and bluster all day long but they’ll just keep saying that they aren’t at liberty to share that information. It’s kind of like that thing with priests and Swiss banks.”
No wonder Gloria felt safe, tooling around Asheville in her snazzy little car—Jerry thought she was in Arizona. Too bad she wasn’t.
You’re starting to grind your teeth again, Elizabeth. Get off it and look at your mail.
I’d picked up this lot on my way back from the grocery store and hadn’t had the time or energy till now to remove the rubber band around the roll of magazines and envelopes. Bills … as always … invitations to subscribe, to donate, to buy … and a familiar lavender envelope. Another letter from Aunt Dodie? That seemed odd as she rarely writes more than two or three times a year.
But maybe there’d be something to explain that last baffling communication sent from England. I glanced at the stamp—U.S., honoring Longfellow.
Now totally confused, I opened the letter. The familiar lavender pages—and an enclosure on lined paper. I could hear the printer beginning to whir in the little office where Phillip was at work as I began to read:
Elizabeth, dear,
Well as you can see, I’m back at my Home Sweet Home. What’s that rhyme—“North, south, east, west, Where e’r you travel, home’s best!” But oh, my! Such a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime trip it was! I’ll write you all about it but for now, just a note to explain the enclosed. It seems to be a follow-up to the letter I sent you before I left—the one in the bright red mailer?
In the rush to get ready to fly to England—my passport had expired and I needed traveling clothes and I had to close my house up and, well, with one thing and another, I never finished cleaning out the desk. So just today, I tackled it once more and found this little note which I’m sending along. It seems to refer to the other longer letter which you already have. Of course, you’ve already “sorted” the matter (that’s a phrase I picked up from Meredith’s charming husband—so veddy British!)
Oh, Elizabeth, I do hope you can get to the Cotswolds someday! It’s absolutely the most beautiful place I ever saw! You would love the gardens! And all the sweet sheep and the beautiful houses of that golden stone. Like a fairy tale. And the cream teas! I’m afraid I was quite greedy when faced with hot scones and jam and clotted cream.
But here I’m running on, as usual! When I get my pictures of the trip back I’ll send you a nice long account of my adventures. Though really, I wish you’d come for a visit, I know how busy you always are but I’d love to see you, dear.
The letter nattered on for another page, but with a sinking feeling I unfolded the enclosed piece of notebook paper. The clear, slanted printing was like a blow to my stomach—Sam’s handwriting. How long had it been …
Sir, just a few lines to say that I followed your suggestion. I believe the matter wil
l be resolved soon, with as little adverse effect to the Navy as possible. The fellow I told you about is hard to pin down—but I think we have the goods on him this time.
Thank you again for your advice and help. I’ll let you know how this plays out.
Sam
There was no date. It couldn’t have been earlier than ’72—Sam hadn’t met the Old Gentleman till our honeymoon trip. And the Old Gentleman had died—it would have been toward the end of ’75—I remember that I was heavily pregnant with Rosemary and so we didn’t go to the funeral.
But Sam was out of the Navy before we married—so what was this all about?
I’ll reread that letter Dodie sent from England—maybe the two of them together will make some sense. And what bright red mailer? How could I have missed something like that?
Hauling myself off the sofa, I went to my desk to look for Dodie’s previous letter. From the back of the house floated the sound of music—Gloria had evidently made good on her threat to purchase a CD player for the guest room. Show tunes were her favorite—I hate show tunes.
At last I found the letter lurking under my desk calendar. No matter how hard I squinted at the smudged postmark, I still couldn’t make out the name of the town. But the date seemed to be March 19.
March 19 and I had just found it in Phillip’s paperwork last week. How could it have taken an airmail letter almost two months to get here?
“Phillip,” I said, walking into the office, “I was wondering—”
He was sitting at the computer with his back to me and looked up with a start. At the same time, whatever he had been reading vanished, replaced by the screen saver.
And at the same time, I felt a cold stab of doubt.
