Playing with Bonbon Fire

by Dorothy St. James

  “We can still move things to my office. Neutral territory might make you feel better,” Harley suggested.

  What I wanted was to be relaxing on the beach, pretending I didn’t have a care in the world. There was something oddly soothing about the constant sound of the surf battering the shore. Listening to it while soaking in the sun’s warmth had the power to wash away life’s worries.

  This far away from the beach, I couldn’t hear the surf. Standing under the cover of the back porch, I couldn’t feel the sun’s healing warmth. And my worries were as sharp and clear as ever.

  Was Bixby a killer or a victim?

  What was bothering Bertie?

  And why in the world would Florence ask to meet with me—the one person on the planet she seemed to hate most?

  Harley frowned as we stood in front of my apartment door. I bit down on my lip but made no move to go inside.

  “I think I’d like to …” I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. At that moment, I had no idea what I wanted beyond the impossible: that Stan hadn’t been murdered, that Candy didn’t keep breaking my storefront window, that the members of my family loved and cherished me.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to walk down that path of impossibilities for too long. Florence, dressed in a 1950s vintage pink-and-peach floral half-sleeve swing dress, came up the stairs with the grace of a famous diva. Not one hair of her spiraling updo moved in the summer breeze. Large sunglasses covered half her face. She wore dainty white gloves. White pearls hung like dewdrops around her neck.

  “Harleston,” she said with a genuine smile as she reached the top step. She extended both hands to him as she approached. As soon as his hands were in her clutches, she drew him in for a kiss on both cheeks. “What a surprise to see you here today.” Her accent, while unmistakably Southern, was so refined it bordered on sounding British. “Oh! I keep forgetting you’ve rented Mother’s tiny spare apartment.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Harley said as he gracefully extracted himself from my aunt’s clutches, “I’ve come at Penn’s behest to sit in on the meeting you’ve requested of my client.”

  His steady green gaze turned toward me. He gave me an encouraging nod as if to say, “Don’t let her spook you.”

  “Charity”—I cringed at her use of my first name—“you really are always too quiet. I didn’t notice you standing there.” Florence didn’t reach out her arms to me. Nor did she plant dainty kisses on my cheeks.

  “Mrs. Corners,” I said with a nod as I opened the apartment door with a little too much emotion. The door swung in so quickly it crashed into a console table.

  A startled Troubadour hissed at me and ran straight to Harley. Bertie’s cat had a weird affinity for my surfing lawyer. He rubbed shamelessly against Harley’s pants, doing that strange figure eight cats do with the people they adore.

  “Please, Charity, call me—” I didn’t get to hear what Florence wanted me to call her. Stella, letting out that ear-piercing high-pitched yip she gets whenever she’s nervous, charged the door with her teeth ready to sink into the closest victim. Harley knew enough to step well out of my little dog’s way. Florence seemed to take offense at Stella’s aggressive behavior and actually lurched forward as if to fight my determined pup.

  I scooped up the little beast before she could chomp into one of Florence’s pretty pink leather pumps. Stella clamped down on my hand in frustration. It hurt like the dickens, but at least she couldn’t bark when she was biting. I gritted my teeth and carried her into my bedroom. I tossed her a handful of treats before closing her inside. She barked and scraped at the door for about five minutes before settling down, which for her was unusual. She generally settled down faster than that.

  “Sorry,” I said while we waited for my naughty little dog to stop barking. “She gets nervous when new people come by.”

  “She’s a bit of a menace.” Even though Harley smiled as he said it, his criticism stung. While I freely complained about Stella’s antics, it bristled to hear someone else doing it.

  “She didn’t chomp into your pants,” I pointed out to him. I glanced at his tan khakis and noticed Troubadour still making circles around his legs. “You have to agree that her behavior is improving.”

  “She’s just a little dog.” He looked at me with furrowed brows and shrugged as if asking what he’d done wrong. After a moment of tense silence, he added, “Shall we sit down?”

  We all found seats in the tidy living room. I didn’t offer refreshments. Florence sat on the sofa and crossed her legs at the ankles. Again, I noticed her pink pumps. They were identical to the ones I’d worn the previous day. Also, her vintage dress gave her a fun retro style I sometimes looked for when shopping for outfits. Seeing the clothes on her made me wonder if I needed to undergo a complete fashion makeover.

  I sat in the armchair across from Florence. Harley took a seat in my armchair’s twin.

  “I see you haven’t changed anything in here,” Florence said with a sour-lemon expression as she looked around.

  I shrugged. “No one has picked up the furniture they’ve inherited.”

  “That’s because no one wants this …” She seemed to struggle to find the right word, perhaps a kind word? With a sigh, she concluded, “No one wants this junk.”

  “I think the words you were searching for were your mother’s—and my grandmother’s—‘favorite things.’ ” Whether this woman sitting across from me was my aunt or not, I wasn’t about to let her sit in Mabel’s home and disparage how she’d furnished it.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you. While I can’t speak for the others, Mother’s taste in furniture doesn’t match my décor. Not even a little bit.”

  “Your mother wanted you to have something to remember her by. I’d take anything my mother wanted to give me. I’d lap it up like a starving pup in search of crumbs.”

  Florence held up her hands in surrender. “I am sorry, Charity. I didn’t ask to talk with you today to argue or insult you.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I answer to Penn, not Charity.” She knew that. I was certain of it. It wasn’t a secret that I recoiled whenever someone called me “Charity.” I suspected she was using my given name as a means of tormenting me. “So why are you here?”

  She sat back. Her lips thinned into such a tight line that the color of her bright red lipstick completely disappeared. Her sharp gaze latched onto my face as if willing me to break. “I came to …” She drew a long breath. “I don’t know how to start.”

  I decided to help her out. “How about we call a truce? You can start by agreeing to take a DNA test to prove you’re my aunt.”

  “I … I can’t do that.” Her voice shook just a bit.

  “Can’t?” Un-freaking-believable. Then what was she doing sitting in my house? I stood and headed toward the door. If she wasn’t willing to help me, I was more than willing to show her how she could get out of my home.

  “You have to understand something—” she started to say.

  But I was tired and cranky and, quite honestly, I didn’t want to understand anything that might come out of this hateful woman’s mouth. So I didn’t let her finish. “No, you have to understand that I’m desperate to find my mother. I’ve been searching for my mother, your sister Carolina, to no avail. And your brother went and filed a petition to the court, claiming the DNA test proving I’m Mabel’s granddaughter is invalid and asking the court to rule that I’m not a blood relative.”

  “We didn’t authorize the DNA test, and you must understand there’s no way we can know that your friend actually got a DNA sample from Mother,” Florence countered.

  “I know it’s true.” I touched my chest. “I know it here in my heart. Mabel is my grandmother. And she loved me like a grandmother should love her grandchild. I wish every day I could have had more time with her.”

  There must have been a sliver of a heart in Florence’s chest, for her expression softened just a bit as she nodded.

  “What
you need to understand, Florence, is that I’ve lived my entire life not knowing anything about my mother beyond the story of her dropping me off at my father’s doorstep. And now that I’ve discovered this connection to Mabel and a chance that I might finally find out more about the woman who gave birth to me, I’m not going to let it go. You don’t know what it’s like having that information dangling in front of your face just inches out of reach. Prove you are my aunt, and help me find your missing sister Carolina.”

  “I—” she started to say something, but I refused to listen. I refused to let her deny me before I could plead my case. Any decent human being would want to help me.

  “You see, whether you believe it or not, the DNA results were real. And that means Carolina has to be my mother. She just has to be. What’s that? What did you say?”

  “I said,” she spoke slowly and confidently, “I’m not your aunt.” The spiteful woman just wouldn’t quit with her denials.

  I swung open the door. “Leave.”

  Harley got to his feet. “I think you’d better go.” He reached for Florence’s arm. She snatched it away from him and remained planted on the sofa. Her eyes flashed fire.

  “You selfish, ungrateful child,” she spit the words at me. “You don’t understand what your coming to Camellia Beach means to anyone else. You don’t understand the pain and upheaval you’re causing.”

  “Leave,” I repeated, louder this time.

  “Please,” Harley said as he extended his arm to Florence, his steely voice making the request sound like a command, “let me walk you out.”

  “I’m not leaving until she hears what I came to say.”

  “You have ten seconds to spit it out,” I said, my hand still on the door.

  And spit it out she did. All in one quick burst, she declared, “I’m not your aunt. I’m your mother.”

  Chapter 24

  A buzzing filled my ears, growing louder and louder until it felt as if my eardrums might burst.

  “If you’re lying, I’ll …” I could barely hear Harley’s angry voice over the buzzing. Like pictures, his words seemed to come in and out of focus.

  Harley had crossed the room without my noticing. He grabbed my arm and held it tightly.

  “Wh-what did she say?” I whispered like one of those wimpy heroines who swooned at every surprising revelation.

  “She said she is your mother,” Harley answered, speaking to me as if I were a child who had just learned the truth about Santa Claus.

  “What about Carolina? Carolina is my mother. Isn’t she? Isn’t she my mother? She has to be my mother. We need to find her. She’ll tell us the truth.” I couldn’t tell you why I wasn’t directing these questions to Florence, who remained seated stoically on the sofa as if her revelation shouldn’t have made me feel as if someone had just punched me in the face half a dozen times.

  “Carolina? You think she’d help you? She couldn’t stand Mother’s chocolate shop. She ran away from the shop back in the summer of 1975, never to call or visit again. Mother turned mean after that,” Florence said, more to the floor than to anyone particular. “My sister might be a coward, but she’s not your mother.”

  I’d imagined this moment in my life happening quite a bit differently. Recently, I’d imagined finding and reconnecting with a mythical, regretful Carolina—not Florence with her angry eyes and sharp words. I’d imagined all sorts of scenarios, such as Carolina confessing that she hadn’t been able to keep me because she was dying of an incurable disease and had only a few days to live. Of course, in that scenario, she wouldn’t actually be alive to be telling me any of that.

  I looked over at Florence again. Instead of paying attention to me, her beloved lost daughter, she was straightening out a wrinkle on her skirt.

  That woman was my mother?

  Troubadour jumped up on the back of the sofa and waltzed blithely over to the perfectly coiffed Florence. He glanced in my direction and then sank his razor-sharp teeth into Florence’s shoulder. With a shriek that got Stella barking again, the woman leaped into the air as if her butt were on fire. “That … that mangy rat bit me!” She furiously thrust her neatly manicured finger in the cat’s direction. Troubadour, in typical catlike fashion, seemed unimpressed by her display. He sat himself down on the back of the sofa and calmly licked his paw. “I’m going to need to get shots for rabies and cat-scratch fever and who knows what else.”

  I had never particularly liked Troubadour. Ever since moving in with Bertie, I had lived in constant fear that he’d jump onto the sofa and bite me in the exact same manner he’d just bitten Florence.

  But in the stress of the moment, I burst out laughing at the sight of Florence flapping around the room like a wounded pelican. I laughed so hard, tears sprang to my eyes. And even though I had trouble catching my breath, I kept laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” Florence wailed. “I need medical attention.”

  “Calm down there, Mrs. Corners,” Harley said. He tried to sound serious, but a chuckle added a few bumps to his smooth Southern drawl. “You don’t need a doctor. You need a seamstress. It’s your dress that’s torn, not your skin.”

  She stopped flailing her arms long enough to peek down at her shoulder. Sure enough, there was no sign of blood or puffy skin. The only evidence of Troubadour’s bite were twin rips, each about an inch long, marring her otherwise perfect vintage silk dress.

  “I never expected this kind of reception.” She blinked her pale blue eyes. Were they eyes that looked like mine? “I thought you’d be grateful that I’d confess my deepest secret to you.”

  “Grateful?” I cried. “You thought I’d be grateful?”

  I don’t exactly know what I’d been expecting when I finally found my mother, but this wasn’t it. It wasn’t as if I’d spent my entire life dreaming of this moment. I hadn’t. I’d spent most of my life feeling angry at the woman who had carelessly left me with a family who refused to love me. What kind of coldhearted monster could do that to her own daughter?

  I looked over at Florence, who was still fussing with her ripped dress. She didn’t care about my feelings, which I supposed made her exactly the kind of monster—I mean, mother—who could abandon her own child.

  Still, her abrupt revelation left me empty. A few tears, a word or two of regret, or even a tight I-wish-I’d-never-left-you hug—were those too much to ask for? Apparently, with Florence, they were.

  She’d left because she hadn’t cared about me. She still didn’t care about me. And no amount of wishing would get me my tearful Hallmark moment.

  Harley seemed intent on ushering Florence out the door. But I wasn’t ready to let her go so easily. Questions rolled around in my head, questions that demanded to be answered.

  “Let’s all sit down,” I said. “If anyone needs sweet tea, Bertie left a pitcher in the fridge.”

  “You don’t mean Bertie’s so-dang-sweet-that-your-teeth-will-hurt-just-from-drinking-it sweet tea, do you?” Harley asked, licking his lips.

  “That’s the tea.” I moved to pour him a glass. Florence seemed less than impressed by my offering.

  “I didn’t come here to have a tea party. And I’m not going to sit down as long as that dangerous beast is still in the room.”

  Troubadour hadn’t left his perch on the back of the sofa. He looked pretty darned pleased with himself as he licked his paw and used it like a little hand to wash the backs of his ears.

  Harley walked over, picked up Troubadour, carried him into Bertie’s bedroom, and closed the door. “He won’t bother you anymore,” he said. “Let’s sit down.”

  We all took the same places we’d had and stared at each other in awkward silence. It was as if we were enemies behind battle lines waiting for the other to fire the first shot.

  “With this new piece of information you’ve handed us,” Harley said to Florence with a sigh, “are you now willing to take the DNA test we’ve been requesting?”

  The question seemed to take Florence by surpris
e. “What? No. Why do you need a DNA test? I’ve told you everything you wanted to know. And I’ve not handed you anything. You have to understand.” She looked at me for the first time since revealing that she was my mother. “Charity, you have to understand that no one knows about this. I have a husband. I have my charity work. I cannot risk upsetting the life I’ve worked so hard to build over a mistake that happened more than thirty years ago.”

  “Thirty-six.” I took several deep breaths. My jaw had tensed up so tightly, it hurt to speak. “Your mistake was born thirty-six years ago. It’ll be thirty-seven years in July.”

  “You have to understand,” she said again. “I was a college student. It was my first time away from home. It was fall break. My friends were all going to Chicago. It seemed so cool. We felt so grown up. We went to the clubs. We met guys.” She looked away. “But I wasn’t grown up. I was young and foolish. And I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You could have talked with your mother,” I said. “She would have helped you.”

  “I wasn’t ready for a child,” she answered, as if it was as easy as that.

  “So you handed me over to my father, who was equally unprepared? You handed me over to his glacier-cold mother?” My voice took on that shrill tone that made me feel ashamed.

  “I gave you to a well-connected Chicago family. They had the means to care for you,” she said. “You have to understand.”

  She wasn’t listening to me. She wasn’t trying to understand the childhood I’d had. By running away from me, she’d denied me my grandmother’s love. Mabel would have loved me. Although I’d known her less than a week, Mabel had loved me.

  I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. I needed to remain calm, but all I wanted to do at that moment was scream.

  Harley reached over and squeezed my hand. “Without your statement or DNA, Penn has no way to prove she’s Mabel’s grandmother. Your brother’s lawsuit argues that because Penn isn’t a blood relative, she shouldn’t have inherited the shop. The petition argues that Penn somehow coerced Mabel into creating her most recent will. To protect my client, I have to go public with the information you’re telling us now.”