We reached the French doors that opened onto a large veranda that overlooked the garden. Ella swung the doors outward and motioned for me to step onto the balcony, then departed. With the returned warmth of the night air came the scent of azaleas and jasmine, a reminder of the garden below. I knew how the garden would look in daylight from this balcony with its iron-wrought railings.
Three oak trees, draped in Spanish moss, would dominate the view at first, until the visitor’s eyes dropped to a wild profusion of subtropical flowers and foliage plants which, upon study, became a garden pattern of exquisite subtlety—rosemary, plumbago, crape myrtle, loquat, hibiscus, ruellia, ginger lilies.
This evening, the garden was lit by old-fashioned lamps, flames fed behind glass cages by natural gas. And beyond was the murky shape of the carriage house, once used to hold horses beneath the slave quarters above, then as the last century progressed, turned into a second residence.
I only glanced at the garden, however.
A round table with four chairs filled most of the balcony. I saw the outline of a woman seated at the table. Her face and shoulders were turned away from the house. From that outline came the voice that had sent me from Charleston.
“Please, sit, Nicholas Barrett,” Helen deMarionne said. Her face was lost in darkness. She was framed by the shadows from the garden lights on one side, the house lights on the other. Her voice still held velvet-wrapped steel, the vowels as soft as her will was strong.
“Thank you,” I said with equal, careful formality.
“Do you believe in a God of love?” she asked.
It was such an abrupt question, and so out of character for the Helen deMarionne I remembered, that I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
She heard the astonishment in my voice. “Never mind,” she said, her voice tinged by embarrassment. Personal matters were not to be discussed among casual acquaintances; she had broken this unspoken rule of her society.
Helen motioned to the bone china serving dishes on the table. “I trust, despite your prolonged absence, that you haven’t lost your taste for our low-country finest.”
“I am not hungry,” I said. My mouth watered at the aromas from the table. All my walking earlier had given my stomach an edge that was difficult to deny. I did not, however, want to be obligated to any pretended kindness from her.
“Surely you cannot refuse this southern hospitality. You well know that Ella makes a bouillabaisse rivaled by none—shrimp, scallops, clams, and crawfish tails. And, as I recall, you were particularly fond of her crab cakes with sweet pepper cream sauce, so I had them prepared as well.”
“I am not hungry,” I said.
“Well, then,” Helen said, “I can see your manners have not improved. How I had hoped otherwise.”
She shifted in her chair to study me. “When Ella announced your arrival last night, I was undecided on where to visit with you. It was a matter of lighting. You see, I was curious as to how the years have treated you. But any light that shows you clearly is a double-edged sword, for it would allow you to judge my face in return, something that does not appeal to me. Nature is cruel to women, for it grants age a far more vigorous attack on us than on men.”
Helen was capable of using her southern drawl as a seductive musical instrument, and coming from the shadows of her face, it was still a powerful spell maker, unaffected by whatever other changes of age she had disguised with her carefully chosen lighting. Her face was now sideways to me, and the softness of the shadows showed only the clean lines of the features of a beautiful face, hiding any sag of skin or puffed eyes or yellowed teeth. To me, it could have been twenty years earlier, in the presence of her intimidating charm and confident loveliness.
“I have observed over the years,” she continued, “that some men start with the promise of young gods, but soft living covers them with a sludge of fat and, even before they reach forty they prove to be a visual disappointment. As they grow into men, they fall far short of their potential. Others—most often overlooked by women in their early years—are tempered and chiseled by difficult decisions made well, and their reward is a handsomeness that grows with time, changing their gawky awkwardness into a dignity which, frankly, is a tremendous attraction.”
Helen lifted a glass of wine from the table and sipped it carefully before setting it down. “There is irony in that hard-earned knowledge, especially as a widow. By the time I was able to recognize in young men their value or lack, it was too late to be able to pursue them—for me or for Claire—with any effectiveness or hope of success. My gift of discernment is no gift, for now, near such men, I feel like
a penniless child pressed against the window, staring at sweets inside the chocolate shop.”
Helen stared out over the garden again and spoke without looking at me. “Tell me,” she said, “since I chose the light that would hide you as it protects me, what kind of man does your face reveal you to be? Did I fail to recognize your potential? Did I make a mistake in separating you from Claire? And I am sad to say—you knew it was my desire all along—that her marriage to Pendleton was much of my doing.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “I’ll try some of Ella’s bouillabaisse.”
I had thought that the hours since learning of the marriage from Pendleton would have provided a buffer. I was wrong. It still stabbed deeply, and I was afraid of saying anything that would show my weakness.
“Please understand,” Helen said, “I am not asking your forgiveness. What was done, was done. I do not expect that you came here tonight in an effort to begin a reconciliation with me when we never had anything between us but hatred and suspicion.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “I’ll try some of Ella’s bouillabaisse.”
Mechanically, wondering if I could trust the woodenness in my hands and arms, I ladled a bowl.
“Please inform Ella that her bouillabaisse is indeed unrivaled,” I said. My hunger was gone, and the broth caked my suddenly dry mouth and throat like white glue. “I enjoy it very much.”
“Why, after so long, have you returned to Charleston?” Helen asked. “And of all the people to visit, why me?”
“My mother,” I said. I pushed aside thoughts of Claire, and I pushed aside the bouillabaisse, barely touched. “You knew her best.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to know why my mother ran away. I believe you can help me.”
The creaking of crickets and katydids filled the night air until Helen spoke again. “You knew as a boy what everyone else knew. Why she ran away. Who she ran away with. Undoubtedly, you knew about the detective reports. Where she was sighted in the months and years that followed. Where the money was spent. As for me helping you, my acquaintance with your mother was half a lifetime ago. And it was only an acquaintance. You overstate considerably to say that I knew her best.”
Helen knew my mother well enough to get an introduction to Maurice deMarionne from her. Why was she hiding that?
I did not ask. Knowledge is power, and what she might know vastly outweighed what I could know at this point. Playing dumb to the single fact I knew seemed the best tactic.
“One month ago,” I said, “I received an envelope postmarked from Charleston. It held a note and an old police report signed by Edgar Layton.”
“Yes,” Helen said, “he supervised the search for your mother in the weeks that followed her sudden escape from Charleston.”
“The police report in the envelope had nothing to do with that.”
“Oh?”
“It covered another investigation. A simpler, shorter one. The car accident with me at the steering wheel. The one that killed your only son. My new brother-in-law at the time.”
Helen had begun to sip her wine. Her hand froze halfway to her mouth.
“If there is something I should know about the acci-
dent . . .”
I shook my head. “Until tonight, I thought I was going to enjoy giving this report to you. T
hat is no longer the situation.”
“Why not?”
“I have reasons. My reasons.”
“What is in that report?”
“No,” I said.
“My son died because of that accident. I deserve to know.”
I considered that. “First help me learn about my mother.”
“Why me?” Helen set her wineglass down without taking a drink.
“Because of the note. Written in block letters. Near the end of this note were ten words that sent me here tonight. ‘Ask Helen deMarionne the truth. She knew your mother best.’ ”
“What did the rest of the note say? Who sent you this envelope?”
“The envelope contained the note and the police report. Along with an airline ticket and prepaid hotel accommodations. The rest of the note is my business. As to who sent it to me, I don’t know. But that is beside the point. Tell me what you know, and perhaps I’ll tell you about the police report.”
“I am a mother asking about her only son, and you offer me a trade.” Her tone had the disdainful chill that I remembered well. “One truth for another. In these circumstances, rather vulgar, don’t you think?”
“And I am a son asking about his only mother.” I gestured with both hands, taking in the house, the garden, the balcony. “The original deMarionne fortune was built on trading that involved slaves and bootleg whiskey and black-market goods sold to desperate people who faced Yankee cannonballs and the devaluation of Confederate money. I am not the authority on which aspect of trade is vulgar.”
“Touché.”
“You will help me then.” I did not present it as a question.
“That was decades ago,” Helen said sharply. “Surely you’ve left it behind.”
“Even for you,” I said, “that is a callous remark. Much as you dislike me, think about a ten-year-old boy essentially orphaned in the way I was. How could anyone ever let that go?”
“Do not lecture me in my own household.” She allowed her voice to soften slightly. “Much as I might deserve it.”
“I would like it,” I said softly in acknowledgment of her grudging apology, “if you could tell me about my mother.”
Helen bowed her head. Formed a steeple with her fingertips. Leaned her chin and nose against the steeple. She did not lift her head until she was ready.
“All right then. I do know the attorney she visited on her final afternoon in Charleston. He was, perhaps, the last person in Charleston she spoke to. He’s the one who gave her your trust fund money.”
“I don’t understand. I thought she’d stolen my trust fund money. Now you’re saying it was given to her? But how could she force him . . . ?”
“You’ll have to ask Gillon yourself.”
“But if you knew it wasn’t stolen, why didn’t others?”
“Charleston keeps its secrets,” Helen answered. “In our circles, there is a difference between public knowledge and private knowledge. Certainly many, like I, did know the circumstances. But that was not for consumption by the common people.”
Common people like me, was the implication I understood. I ignored it. A small portion of my earlier anger began to return inside me, and it felt good. “I want everything you know,” I said.
She sighed. “In our circles, we knew the investigation had been done badly.”
“You’re saying someone could have found her?”
“And then what? Even if she didn’t go to prison, it was clear she had made a choice to leave you. How could we force her to become your mother again? We—and I mean our circle—did not allow you to be sent to a state institution where any other parentless child might have gone. We kept you among us.”
“Collective guilt?” Anger truly was a much better emotion than defeat.
“In retrospect, perhaps. At the time, it seemed easier than—” Helen hesitated— “disturbing the surface of the scandal and facing what might lay beneath. Your mother . . .”
More hesitation.
“Nick,” Helen said slowly, “I do know your mother had leverage over the Barrett family. And used it. But I don’t know the details. You should be warned that this may lead you to knowing more about your mother than you care to understand.”
“Give me the truth.”
“Very well. As I said, you should speak to Geoffrey Alexander Gillon. Despite his political career, he still serves as the Barrett family attorney, at least on an informal advising level. I’m sure his name is familiar to you. I will call him tomorrow and tell him I sent you. That should be a fair trade for what I want to hear from you about the accident.”
“Call him tonight. At home. Tell him I will be at his office at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”
“Why the hurry?”
“Once again, my business.” I will not lie. I enjoyed talking to her in this manner. “Make the call.”
“I will make the call.”
She leaned forward, as if she were about to say more.
She was interrupted by a noise from the other side of the garden. The door to the carriage house had opened, leaking light into the garden.
“Mother!” The voice came from the figure in the doorway. A figure that carried a wineglass and stepped unsteadily out of the doorway and into the garden. “Mother, you assured me that tonight we would have our privacy.”
“Nicholas Barrett arrived to pay a visit,” Helen called back down into the garden. “Considering the length of his absence from Charleston, it would have been rude to turn him away.”
“Nick?” The voice below was incredulous. “Nick Barrett?”
“Yes, dear. Nicholas.”
“Nick.” Now the woman’s voice held anger. There was movement in the darkness. The figure came closer. Not until a wineglass shattered against the balcony railing did I realize the figure below had made a throwing motion in my direction.
“Forgive her,” Helen said. “She stays in the carriage house and normally is an excellent guest. When she drinks, however, she loses both her sensibilities and her manners. The only consolation is that she does so privately, for fear of hurting her political dreams.”
I closed my eyes. The voice below had ripped through me like grenade shards bursting a balloon.
Claire Eveleigh deMarionne.
Chapter 8
When I stepped out of the front door of the mansion, Ella shut the door firmly behind me, almost hitting my heels in her haste to ensure my departure. The dead bolt immediately clicked into position, another clear signal for my benefit.
Neither gesture registered on me with the effect Ella had intended. Not with my eyes drawn to the shape of a person sitting on a rocking chair halfway down the piazza.
I had half expected to see Claire after she disappeared from the garden and had certainly hoped for it, despite the intensity of longing and sorrow that had arrived with the sound of her voice reaching up to the balcony.
For years after my departure from Charleston, I had run scenes of a reunion through my head, trying to imagine her reaction to me, what I might say to her, where we might accidentally encounter each other, picturing places in Charleston or along the beach where circumstances might place her in my path. Those dreams had finally quit haunting me when I was able to bury them as adolescent specu-lations that had no place in my life; I had long ceased rehearsing the imagined dialog of my first words to her.
“Hello, Claire,” I said now, lost for the words I had once dreamed.
“I have waited a long time for this chance,” she answered. “I want you to hear me and watch me as I tell you what
I have wanted to tell you for so long now.”
She rose from the rocking chair. It wobbled. As did she. She moved forward, concentrating on following her feet, reaching me beneath the porch light and its fluttering moths. She stood, unsteady, less than three feet from me, tilting her head upward to stare at my face.
Dizzied by her presence, I felt a need to steady myself too.
Claire wore jeans and a loose gray sweats
hirt that hung below her hips. The jeans were tight and her hips were narrow. With no makeup, the milk-soft complexion of cameo features, and hair as short as it had been when she and I floated in the ocean waves and held each other against the chill of the water, she could have still been sixteen. She had a small triangular scar just above her chin from when she had tripped into the edge of a coffee table as a five-year-old, a scar that I had always liked to gently trace with my fingertips. I nearly did so again as I returned her stare; the flood of emotions battered at the control I had learned to impose on my sorrow.
“I hate you,” she said, speaking slowly in the manner that drunks use when they believe they can disguise their drunkenness. “That is what I have wanted to tell you for so long. Look in my eyes and see that hatred as I say it again. I hate you. Not because of what you did to my brother or even for what you did to me by running away. But because you never returned to give me the chance to forgive you for it.”
I saw the shift of her shoulders. I had ample warning as she clumsily swung her hand. I braced myself instead of catching her wrist in my own hand, braced myself instead of swaying backward to easily miss the blow. Her hand hit me flush across the cheek.
“Coward,” she said. “After he finally died, I stood at his funeral. Without you. Knowing my brother’s killer had used me and discarded me.”
“Claire,” I said, “nothing could be further from the truth.”
“Not one phone call. Not one letter.” She slapped me again, an ineffectual swing that bounced off my nose in slow motion. “I was ready to fight the entire world to keep you. I was insane with grief. Heartbroken.”
“So heartbroken that you married Pendleton within months of the accident?”
She drew herself up with dignity. “Pendleton was here. You were not.”
“Claire,” I said, “I’m back because I wanted to tell you the truth.”
“Which is?”
“Of no matter anymore. I discovered you married Pendleton.”
Out of the Shadows (Nick Barrett Charleston series) Page 6
