by Ellen Crosby
“It’s complicated.”
“Tell me. I’ve got time.”
“No, you don’t. We’ve really got to move. We’re twenty-one minutes behind schedule. I’ll fill you in later.”
“It wasn’t my idea to have the wake two hours after I got off the plane from France,” I said. “And you drove like a madman. You made up for a lot of lost time. We’ll be fine.”
“We’re the family. We can’t be late.”
He pulled the car into the curved drive in front of the house. Highland House, as it was called, was a harmonious mixture of Federal and Georgian architecture built of locally quarried stone. Not a pretentious or grand mansion, it possessed—at least to my eyes—a grace and elegance in its well-proportioned symmetry that made it seem somehow more substantial than it was. Scott Fitzgerald used to attend parties here when he came from Baltimore to visit friends in the area, and FDR dined with my grandparents the day he gave the dedication speech for the newly constructed Blue Ridge Parkway.
When my mother was alive, she’d made frequent pilgrimages to the gardens of Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home, and to the Pavilion Gardens at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, which he’d designed. I’d often gone with her on those trips, watching while she read his Garden Book, making plans to incorporate into her own gardens the harmony and beauty Jefferson had sought to achieve. Like him, she believed botany ranked near the top of the list among the sciences, and so it had happened that every year our home had been one of the most popular ones on the annual garden tour.
“Oh my God,” I said. “What happened?”
I stared through the Jag’s tinted window. Everything she had created was gone. The lawn was coarse and scrubby where there weren’t rock-hard bare spots. If I hadn’t known where the flowerbeds had been, I’d have thought the yard was always this weed-tangled and ugly.
The house hadn’t fared much better, for it looked depressingly seedy and run-down. The paint on the shutters, the large paneled door, and the fluted columns had gone mottled and grayish and was peeling in long scales. The moss-covered façade was stained below the bowed bay windows, two of which were mended with duct tape where the glass had cracked. Weeds bloomed in the chipped stone urns which sat on either side of the door. Our family motto, Gardez bien—“watch well” or “take good care”—carved in the stone lintel above the doorway was obscured by grime and lichen.
“I’m glad Mom can’t see this,” I said, when he didn’t answer.
He turned off the engine and punched the button to unlock the doors, a bit savagely, I thought. “Knock it off, Lucie. You’ve got no right to say anything. You left, remember?”
He got out of the car, hoisted my suitcase out of the trunk and headed for the front door without waiting for me. By the time I got inside, he had already vanished up the sweeping spiral staircase. The exterior state of deterioration should have tipped me off to how bad the interior would be, but inside was worse. When my mother was alive the house smelled of lavender and lemon furniture polish and fresh-cut flowers. Now it stank of stale grease, stale air, and stale urine, like an animal might have squatted on the Aubusson rug every now and then. Half the bulbs in the Waterford chandelier were either burned out or missing, so the light was as dingy as the furniture and walls. What most disoriented me though, was the silence. My mother’s antique long case clock, whose quiet ticking sound and mellow chimes were as calming and familiar as breathing was stuck at twelve-thirty. How long had it been since anyone had bothered to wind it? It was like the heart of the house had stopped beating.
I heard Eli shout from upstairs. “Hey, shake a leg down there! We haven’t got all day.” A moment later he appeared at the upstairs railing. “Oh God. I’m sorry…”
“Forget it.” I walked over to the stairs. Since the accident, I needed to climb stairs the way a small child does, always the same foot first, my good foot taking the weight for the rest of my body. I hooked my cane over my right arm and gripped the railing, pulling myself up.
“Um, can you manage?” He sounded tentative. “I mean, do you need some help or something?”
I stopped and looked up. “With what? Climbing the stairs?”
“Uh…I don’t know. I mean, just checking.” He wiped his forehead with a folded white handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket.
“Look,” I told him. “Keep treating me like some kind of cripple and I’ll deck you with my cane first chance I get.”
He pursed his lips together but it wasn’t much of a smile. “Okay, I get your message. I’ll shut up. Maybe I’ll go call the funeral home and tell them we’re going to be eighteen minutes late.”
“You do that.”
When we walked into the B. J. Hunt & Sons Funeral Home—only twelve minutes late—my palms were so sweaty my cane kept slipping in my hand. Eli took my elbow and murmured in my ear, “You look like you’re dressed to go to a hunt club ball. You’re bound to scandalize the blue-rinse crowd and knock a few pacemakers out of kilter.”
My long black dress, it’s true, was more like something to wear to a fancy dress party than to a wake. “It’s not like I had any time to shop,” I hissed. “It’s the only black dress I own.” What I didn’t say was that all my dresses are long now so my twisted left leg is hidden from view.
“I wasn’t criticizing. You don’t look too bad in that. It looks kind of…French. You know, sexy.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
He held the door for me. “There’s something else I meant to tell you.”
All of a sudden he sounded nervous.
“Now?” I said. “Right this very second? Can’t you tell me after I see everybody? It already feels like I’m facing a firing squad. At least let me get through that.”
“Well, then you’d know.”
I stopped and looked at him. “What would I know?”
“That Brandi’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant.” I stared. “She’s pregnant?”
“Umhm.”
“So I guess this isn’t recent news if I could tell by seeing her.”
He tugged on the collar of his shirt like it was constricting his breathing. “Oh, it’s pretty recent. We haven’t actually known that long ourselves.”
“How long have you known?”
“Five and a half months.”
“Five and a half months?”
“Well, we waited to make sure everything was okay before we said anything.”
Men can be so dumb when they make up excuses. At least he spared me the real reason. I can never have children. It was one of the invisible consequences of the accident. At least he’d been considerate enough to figure it might be a sensitive subject.
We walked toward the elevator and I concentrated on my feet again.
“Sorry about the timing, Luce,” he added. “I meant to tell you sooner, but sometimes things don’t work out the way we mean them to, you know?”
Something in his voice made me glance up and there was no avoiding what came next. I looked straight into the depths of the get-lost-in-me eyes of Gregory Knight, who had shown up to pay his respects to Leland, and I saw heartache coming my way like a freight train.
Chapter 4
I’d thought long and hard about what I would say if I ever saw him again. I’d even rehearsed a speech, which I used to recite to the bathroom mirror while brushing my teeth. A real drop-dead diatribe, delivered in perfect Ice Maiden tones, with a good amount of spitting for effect.
I couldn’t remember any of it. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the too-loud ticking of a grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the dimly lit foyer.
Then Eli said coolly, “Leaving already?”
“I’ve got to get over to the station. I’m supposed to meet someone before work.” Though Greg spoke to Eli, his eyes never left mine. “It’s good to see you again, Lucie. I’m really sorry about your father. If there’s anything I can do…”
I had wondered whether t
here would be some kind of emotional litmus test when we met so I’d have some clue how he felt after all this time. Maybe guilt or remorse or even the apology he never offered. But there was none of that, only polite concern on a tabula rasa.
He’d moved on. I hated myself that it could still hurt. The Ice Maiden was supposed to be tough as nails. “You can get out of the way. We’re late.”
I stomped past him, banging my cane, though the effect was lost on the thick carpet muting all sound as it was meant to.
“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “You look very pretty in that dress.” I didn’t turn around. The outside door closed quietly and I heard his footsteps clattering on the staircase. Eli caught up with me and took my elbow again. “I got a chance to look at the tread marks on his back on his way out. I think he got your message.”
I yanked my arm away from him. “I doubt it. And I can manage fine on my own, thanks.”
He held the door and let me walk into the Green Room alone. Though it had been only two years, they’d all changed. Brandi, dark-haired and dark-eyed, was as lovely as ever, but now robustly and self-consciously pregnant. She came to me immediately, moving like the QE2 docking at port. She leaned over and kissed the air, missing any part of my anatomy by a good eight inches. “Lucie,” she said, “I guess Eli told you about our fabulous news. Isn’t it great?”
“Congratulations. It’s wonderful.”
“I know.” She squeezed my arm with her left hand. I glanced down at her large marquise-cut diamond engagement ring and diamond-studded wedding ring. If she flashed those rings in hard sunlight, she could probably send messages in Morse code to extraterrestrials on distant planets. They must have set my brother back plenty.
Dominique stood behind her. Her auburn hair was shorter than I remembered, layered in chunky tufts as though it had been cut with loping shears instead of styling scissors, giving her an untidy boyish look. She’d always been tiny with that indefinable waiflike French chic no American woman had ever successfully copied, but I wondered as I smiled at her if she was flirting with anorexia. There were black rings like bruises under her eyes and her skin stretched taut over her cheekbones. I used to think of her as delicate, like fine porcelain, but now she seemed so brittle she could have been hollow inside. I hugged her carefully.
“Chérie,” she said, “it’s good to have you home again. You look wonderful.” She smiled tiredly and stepped back to look me over. “You’ve changed.”
“I walk now,” I said. But I knew she was talking about other things.
“More than that,” she replied and left it at that.
“You’ve changed, too,” I said. “You’re dead tired. Eli says you’re working all the time.”
“Bah!” She flicked her hand, like she was shooing away a pesky fly. “Isn’t that the American way? Work hard? Get ahead? A chicken in every soup? I have a successful business. I have to work so much.”
Though her English had improved considerably since she moved to the States, she’d never really gotten the hang of a lot of American idioms. Get her really upset and the English would go out the window entirely. Some things, at least, were as they’d always been.
Mia was last. Eli hadn’t been kidding. She was unrecognizable, changed completely from the kid who used to wear ripped low-cut jeans with skanky little midriff-skimming tops that showed off her butterfly tattoo. I glanced automatically at Dominique, who I assumed was responsible for the transformation, but she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Then I caught the infinitesimal eyelid flicker in Brandi’s direction.
Though it was easy to see why my brother was captivated by his wife’s smoldering Playboy centerfold beauty, what was less understandable—at least, to me—was how he could deal with the fact that she was, frankly, thick as two planks. She once told me the only thing she liked about France was French toast and that she never understood all the fuss about the Mona Lisa, who was, well, rather a dull-looking woman.
But she’d clearly wrought a miracle with my sister, who looked stunning. Dressed in a clinging dark blue silk dress, fresh-faced, tanned, her long blonde hair worn in a sophisticated French twist, Mia stepped forward and held out her hand, like we were strangers. “Hello, Lucie.”
I had been moving toward her expecting a hug, but stopped when I saw her outstretched hand. I put out my own hand and shook hers. It probably looked as awkward as it felt. “Hello, Mia. You look wonderful.”
“Thanks.” She pulled out of my grasp, crossed her arms, and looked away. Her mouth moved and I thought she was going to say something else. Then I realized she was chewing gum. And she wasn’t going to say anything.
“Are you all right? How are you holding up?” I knew it sounded lame but I couldn’t think of anything else to say, especially with Brandi hovering nearby.
Mia’s gaze came back to rest on me. The expression in my kid sister’s eyes changed from incredulity to scorn. “Why, I’m fine. Just fine. Thanks for asking. Maybe you ought to go pay your respects to Pop. Everyone else has already done it.”
“Maybe I ought to.”
I leaned on my cane for support as I knelt down before the closed coffin, breathing the dense mingled odors of roses, gladiolus, and chrysanthemums from the substantial funeral bouquets. I shut my eyes and tried to pray for Leland.
Dominique came over as I pulled myself up, leaning on my cane, and stood beside me. “Don’t mind her,” she murmured. “It’s not you. It’s Gregory.”
“It sure feels like me,” I said. “And what about Greg?”
“They had an argument, just before you came in. Mia wanted him to stay with her all evening. She’s very…possessive. Or maybe I mean obsessive,” my cousin said. “I think she might be jealous because you and Gregory were lovers once.”
I groaned. “It’s over. As for being ‘lovers,’ come on, Dominique. Name one girl in my high school he didn’t come on to. He’s just moved to a new generation.”
“I don’t understand what anyone sees in him. The only person he cares about is himself.” She shrugged. “He’s certainly not my bag of tea.”
“Mine, either. Anymore.”
At exactly 7:30 P.M. people began arriving. By 7:45 the room was so crowded I could hardly move. I felt a big, meaty hand grasp my shoulder and turned around. My nose was practically plastered against his chest.
“Ma chère Lucie!” Fitz crowed. He was originally from Charleston and spoke with an aristocratic Southern accent that sounded ever so slightly British, so it seemed like he’d just said “my chair Lucie.” He’d picked up his French from Dominique and my mother. He had a good mind for the vocabulary, but his pronunciation—with that little drawl—reminded me of someone who’d just left the dentist’s office and the drugs hadn’t worn off yet.
He took hold of my other shoulder, pulling me to him like he was squeezing toothpaste from the end of the tube. A strong smell of the alcohol on his breath washed over me. “I’m so glad to see you, sugar.”
I stepped back to get away from the fog of booze. “I’m glad to see you, too, Fitz.”
He had aged. Though he was still portly, still with the flowing mane of white hair combed back and the neatly trimmed beard, there was something newly frail around his eyes which seemed to have shrunk away from his skin, settling deeper into the bones of his face. His breathing was labored.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Now, Chantal darlin’, don’t you worry about me.”
“It’s Lucie, Fitz. You just called me Chantal.”
He released me and stepped back. “Oh, Lordy. I know that. I’m sorry, child. I didn’t mean to. I know who you are. But you know, you are the spitting image of her when she was your age.” He stared hard at me.
I squirmed. Eli had homed in on the pair of us. I turned slightly so he was out of my line of vision, but I could feel his eyes boring holes through my back.
“Let’s go,” Fitz said.
“What do you mean?”
“I need to t
alk to you.”
“Right now?” I whispered. “In the middle of Leland’s wake? Can’t it wait?”
“It can’t.” He poked me gently. “Now let’s skedaddle. No one will notice. We’ll be right back.”
Eli noticed. I saw his jaw tighten when I glanced at him as we left the room.
Fitz led me outside through the service door. We stood near the back of the house on a wraparound porch. I felt like I was swimming in the suffocating humidity. It was quiet except for the occasional sound of a car driving by and the metallic end-of-summer sound of the cicadas.
I hitched myself up on the railing to take the weight off my aching left foot and propped my cane next to me. Fitz stood in front of me, arms folded across his chest.
“You have a little talk with your brother yet, sugar?”
It was a rhetorical question. “More like a monologue,” I said. “I got the ‘what you missed’ speed-dial version of life in Atoka for the past two years, with a big helping of guilt thrown in because I was gone.”
“Meaning he told you he wants to sell the vineyard?” When I nodded he said, “What about you? You gonna go along with that?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s my girl. I knew I could count on you. We’ll hold those people off.”
“What people?”
“Whoever was pressuring your daddy to sell the vineyard, Lucie. It’s been losing money lately. You know old Lee. He made a small fortune on those grapes. The problem is, he started with a large fortune. Your momma’s money.”
There was no humor in his voice and, anyway, it was an old joke among vineyard owners. Running a vineyard was an expensive proposition.
“Then someone offered to buy the place from him, except it was a fire sale price. Lee wouldn’t sell.”
“Eli didn’t tell me that,” I said.
“I’ll bet he didn’t,” Fitz said. “They were keepin’ that kind of hush-hush. And Eli probably told you that I’m an old crackpot, too, didn’t he?”
“Eli wouldn’t say…” I said, but he cut me off.
