Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread

by Mary Jane Hathaway

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  To my husband, Crusberto. You are my Jem. We are like night and day, like the sun and the moon, and just possibly from completely different planets. I couldn’t live without fiction, and you don’t read anything that doesn’t have schematics inside. You never stop singing and I’m always wishing for a little bit of quiet. My Spanish is atrocious and your English isn’t much better. But in the ways that matter, we are alike. You believe the martyrs had it right, that babies are a little bit of heaven and that we are called to live in this world, but not of it.

  PS. You’re a really good cook and I like the way you smell. Oh, and thanks for passing on your good teeth, dark skin that tans/never burns and excellent eyesight to our six kids. Well done!

  To my children, always. Without you, I would be all work and no play, and a very dull girl indeed.

  No: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no respect lessening his personal advantages. She had seen the same Frederick Wentworth.

  —ANNE ELLIOT

  Chapter One

  “ This is an effort to collect a debt. Any information obtained will be used for that purpose.”

  Lucy Crawford leaned her forehead against the wall and closed her eyes. The mechanical voice droned on, rattling through an 800 number and requesting a call back. The time stamp was an hour ago.

  There was a brief pause and the next message began: “This call is for William Crawford. I am a debt collector and this is an effort to collect a debt. Any information—”

  Lucy reached out and punched the skip button. The message machine flashed three more calls in the queue. She didn’t know if she could listen to them all at one time. It was too depressing, like watching the recap, over and over, of the Bulldogs falling to Alabama by thirty points. Except that there was always next year for her favorite football team, and there wasn’t any end in sight to her daddy’s financial issues.

  Skip. Skip. Skip. Maybe all the calls were from the same creditor, but probably not. Lucy heaved herself upright and trudged into the foyer. She might as well get the mail now while she was already feeling low. The black-and-white tile expanse of the entrance area gleamed dully in the summer light shining through the leaded panes of the double doors. In all of her twenty-eight years she had never seen them so scuffed. Old Zeke polished the floors of every room in the house once a week and always spent extra time on the entrance. He was proud of his job and being part of keeping up the historic Crawford House. Or at least he had been, until Lucy had fired him.

  She paused in front of the side table, where a five-inch stack of bills waited neatly. The conversation with Zeke flashed through her mind and she felt the unfamiliar burn of tears. She wasn’t a crier. When she’d sat Zeke down, she had done well, speaking clearly and confidently until he had bowed his head. The defeat in his posture was like a stab of hot iron in her heart. Zeke had always seemed larger than his five-foot-five frame, probably because Lucy remembered being very little, pulling on his pant leg and looking far, far up at the Crawford House handyman. He was like family, and she was telling him he wasn’t going to be part of their daily lives any longer.

  Then he had glanced up, black eyes still bright despite his seventy-­five years. “Miss Lucy, I know’d this time be coming. I’s not as strong as I once was.”

  She had wanted to drop to her knees, wrap her arms around his fragile shoulders and cry like a little girl. She’d wanted to cry like the time she’d lost her dolly down the irrigation pipe in the back pasture, before Zeke had retrieved it for her. Like the time she’d broken her heart into tiny pieces and he sat beside her, patting her shoulder and whispering, “There, there,” until she fell asleep, soggy and exhausted.

  But she hadn’t. Lucy had explained, again, about the debts and the home equity loan and the repairs they couldn’t afford. No matter what she’d said about bills and bankruptcy and foreclosure, old Zeke hadn’t quite seemed convinced. The memory of it was so strong she felt chilled, even standing in the stifling air of the foyer. Lucy reached out and grabbed up the pile of envelopes, not even bothering to glance at the addresses. They wouldn’t be able to pay them, or any new ones that would have come in.

  “Honey, is that you?” Her daddy’s rich baritone echoed through the large entrance hall. Seconds later he appeared around the corner, dressed in a perfectly pressed pair of yellow-and-green-plaid golf pants, Ralph Lauren polo shirt casually unbuttoned at the neck. Willy Crawford’s close-cropped hair was still black, except for a bit of gray at each temple, and for a man of sixty, he was still lean and fit. “I’m headed to the club for a quick round with Theon James.”

  Lucy winced inside. Theon James excelled in three things: golf, business and goading her daddy into spending money to keep up his reputation as the richest man in town. She suspected Theon was playing a game, enjoying how easy it was to convince Willy Crawford that it was time to get a newer car or take a monthlong vacation to St. Simons Island.

  “Will you be home for lunch? I have a casserole in the oven I think you’d really like, Daddy.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Does it have any meat in it?”

  She was tempted to lie. Really, he acted as if vegetarian cooking were poison. “No, but the eggplant tastes just like—”

  “Nah.” He pulled on a matching green-and-yellow-plaid golfer’s cap and shouldered his bag. “You know I don’t like that sort of thing. Put some ham in it next time. And don’t say I always need my meat, because I eat some of that vegetarian food, too. Your mama was a great cook. Her beignets were so light and fluffy, fried just right, a good bit of powdered sugar on top. . . .” He paused, a small smile on his face. Lucy knew just what he felt. Sweet memories were all they had left of her mama.

  “Before you go,” she started to say, holding out the mail. He cut her off. “No time now, sugar. Theon’s already there.” Her daddy leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the head, leaving a whiff of Old Spice and cigars.

  “It’s just I thought you were fixin’ to sort through some of these on Sunday after church, but you went out to lunch. We need to see if there are a few we could pay off right away. It would save a lot on interest in the long run and . . .”

  He wasn’t listening to her. Bending over his golf bag, he rummaged inside. “When I get back, I’ll take care of it. And there’s no we about payin’ these bills. I’ve got the money, just need to cash out a few old savings accounts and I’ll be settled up with those people.”

  Lucy almost sighed out loud. Those people. Her daddy always drew a thick black line between their family and the rest of the world. If she tried to suggest that they were close to bankruptcy, he would point out how the Crawfords had owned the finest home in Brice’s Crossroads, Mississippi, since right after the Civil War had ended, or how his great-granddaddy had founded the area’s first African-American business league, or how the Crawfords had attended Harvard before the Roosevelts. The ­Crawfords were good stock. They were on the boards of hospitals, joined exclusive clubs, were admired by everyone. They didn’t have financial issues, and they certainly didn’t worry out loud if they did.

  “Some of these are probab
ly Paulette’s,” Lucy said. “You’ve got to get those credit cards from her. She’s got closets full of designer clothes and she just buys more.”

  “Your sister is a fine-lookin’ woman in search of a husband. I won’t be interfering with that.” He winked at her.

  “But Janessa managed to get a husband without spending sprees in Atlanta.” Lucy crossed her arms over her chest. Her middle sister had many faults, but being a fashionista wasn’t one of them.

  “You leave Paulette be. She’s not like you. She’s still young and hasn’t given up on men. I don’t mind her spending a bit to make herself look presentable. It’s part of keeping up appearances. She certainly doesn’t want to live in her daddy’s house the rest of her days.” His voice was light, but there was a warning in his eyes.

  Did he think she’d given up on men? She swallowed past the hurt of his words and said, “Alrighty, as soon as you get back, let’s go over these bills together. Mama’s not here. You need to keep track of these things.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful.” His face was stiff with anger. “I didn’t raise you like that.”

  Lucy dropped her gaze to the floor. When she was little, her daddy had heard her mouth off to her mama. He hadn’t used the switch on her, the way she’d thought he would. He’d sat her on his knee and explained he could forgive a lot of sins, but he could never love a stubborn, strong-willed girl. She’d apologized to her mama and tried her very best to be a good girl ever since. She was a grown woman now, but Lucy still couldn’t seem to balance on that fence between gentle coaxing and shrewish nagging.

  “I didn’t mean to offend, Daddy.”

  The door was already closing on the end of her sentence, and Lucy listened to him cross the wide, wooden porch. His footsteps faded with each step toward his shiny red Miata. She sagged against the side table and resisted the urge to throw the whole stack of letters against the door. He wouldn’t listen. She had done everything possible to keep the bank from foreclosing on the house, but it was only a matter of time before they lost everything. Her mama had been so good at managing the household finances. Maybe too good. Her daddy had been happy to turn it all over to her and focus on his golf game. He was the face of Crawford Investments, but her mama had been the brains. When she passed, he’d just pretended that nothing had changed, creating chaos at home and disaster for the ­business.

  Just the thought of her mama gave Lucy a sharp pain, even though it had been close to nine years now she’d been gone. One early morning she’d collapsed in the kitchen and Lucy’s life had changed forever.

  Lucy breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for the time they’d had together, all the way through her teens. She used to love sitting in the bright-blue kitchen and watching her mama cook. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Hardy, made perfectly fine meals, but her mama wasn’t happy if she didn’t mix up a batch of gumbo or hush puppies once in a while. Straight from Cane River, she spoke with the lyrical accent of a native Creole speaker and had eyes the color of Kentucky bluegrass. She liked to sing, all the time, and it was like having a radio you could never turn off. Gospel hymns, blues, low-country ballads. The house was so quiet without her. Lucy had the dark eyes and skin of her daddy, but her curves and throaty laugh were all her mama’s doing.

  She still had the curves, but it had been months since she’d heard herself laugh.

  A rap at the door sounded like a gunshot in the quiet foyer. Lucy hesitated, wondering if bill collectors ever came to the door in their “attempts to collect a debt.” Peeking through the beveled glass, she let out a breath. When trouble comes, family arrives close behind, for better or for worse.

  “Auntie,” she said, swinging the door wide.

  Aunt Olympia held out both hands and stuck out her lower lip. “Oh, honey, come here.” She gripped Lucy’s hands and hauled herself over the threshold like a shipwreck victim grabbing hold of a life raft.

  “You got my message,” Lucy said into her aunt’s elaborately braided updo. Lucy was being squeezed and rocked from side to side, and her words sounded as if she were running.

  “Yes, bless your heart. And I’ve been busy solving your problems,” Aunt Olympia said. Letting go of Lucy, she shut the door behind her and started toward the kitchen. “Come let me tell you all about it over a little sweet tea.”

  Lucy knew better than to laugh. There was no way Aunt Olympia could have solved anything in the hours since Lucy had called, giving the dire news of the impending foreclosure. Instead, Lucy trailed along behind her, wondering how such a tiny woman could exude such force. Where Olympia went, everyone followed.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at the museum today?” her aunt called over one shoulder. Of course she would have noticed Lucy’s jeans-and-T-shirt ensemble right away. Her aunt didn’t believe in casual clothes. Her neon-green track suit said JUICY on the rear, and her earrings bounced with every movement. She was all flash, all the time.

  “They’re closed for maintenance, and it’s an interpretive center, not a museum.” Lucy didn’t want to talk about her job. Aunt Olympia would say Lucy should have a better position, maybe something with a fancy title and a yearly bonus.

  “Which means what? Cleaning?” Aunt Olympia moved around the cheery kitchen, reaching into the fridge for the pitcher of tea.

  Lucy dropped into a chair. “Yes. Cleaning.” Maintenance made it sound as if the center might get a new roof or any of the other desperately needed repairs. But upgrading access to a Civil War battlefield site wasn’t high on the list of popular causes in Tupelo.

  “I don’t know why you work over there. You probably are only gettin’ the people who wander through from the Elvis museum.”

  Lucy said nothing. The sad fact was, if Elvis had been born in Brice’s Crossroads, they’d have an event center with a full kitchen, green rooms and a theater—not to mention a chapel and a gift shop with its own apparel line. As it was, they had to make do with folding chairs, a microwave and a yearly budget that wouldn’t cover Graceland’s electric bill.

  “Hun, you need to find yourself a better job. Iola is working on the top floor of a smoked-glass high-rise in Atlanta. She wears the prettiest outfits and has a whole closet for her shoes. She says—”

  “I know,” Lucy interrupted, unable to stand hearing one more time about her cousin’s happiness at being a secretary for a group of slick lawyers in pin-striped suits. “I know,” she said more slowly. “But working at the center is perfect for me, Auntie. I love this area, these people. If I could have majored in the history of Tupelo, Mississippi, I would have. Being a curator doesn’t come with fame or glory, but it makes me happy.”

  Aunt Olympia’s frown softened into a sigh. “You deserve a little happiness, that’s for sure.”

  Lucy wondered for a moment if she meant because of the way her mama had passed away so suddenly, or if Olympia was talking about another time, long before. An image of a laughing, blond-haired boy flashed through her mind and she shoved it away. Her present was bad enough without wallowing in the past.

  Her aunt glanced in the oven. “Is that lasagna? You know your daddy doesn’t like ethnic dishes.”

  “It’s baked ziti, and he’s already taken a pass.”

  “Oh, honey, you need to learn how to cook. You’re never going to catch a man with that kind of food.” Aunt Olympia shook her head, as if knowing the perfect fried chicken recipe would solve Lucy’s single status.

  She didn’t want the conversation to veer off into marriage talk. “What sort of plan did you come up with for the house?”

  “I’ve got a surefire idea to get you all out of this mess,” Aunt Olympia said, taking a sip of tea. A bright smear of orange lipstick decorated the rim of her glass.

  Surefire. That couldn’t be good. Aunt Olympia had flair, beauty, style and one of the finest Southern mansions in the state, but she had about the same amount of business sense as Lucy’s daddy. Sh
e knew how to spend money, not make it.

  She leaned forward, resting her hand on Lucy’s. Her long nails were sunset orange with tiny black palm trees. “I called my friend Pearly Mae and she—”

  Letting out a groan, Lucy slumped in the chair. “Oh, boy.”

  Aunt Olympia paused, lips a thin line. “You can make all the fun you want, but Pearly Mae knows everything about everyone.”

  “Now she knows everything about us, too.”

  “Yes, well, that’s part of the bargain, isn’t it? You tell her what you need and she tries to help out.”

  “While calling every friend of hers on the way.” Lucy had just enough pride left to be horrified at the idea of her family troubles being spread around town.

  Ignoring that last comment, Aunt Olympia went on, “She heard that the Free Clinic of Tupelo needed a new space. They got a big grant from the state to upgrade all their equipment, but the place over on Yancey Avenue is too little for all their clientele. Crawford House has thirteen large bedrooms upstairs and—”

  Lucy held up a hand, eyes closed. “Wait, now. Wait just a minute here.”

  “I know you think they’ll destroy the place,” her aunt said. “But they won’t make any significant changes and you all can still live here, too.”

  Lucy cracked an eye and stared at her. “Live here. With the Free Clinic of Tupelo.” She wasn’t sure which was worse: the idea of Crawford House being rented out as a medical facility or living in what would amount to a waiting room for sick people.

  “You wouldn’t have to interact with them at all, of course. You and Willy keep the front part of the house with the library, sitting room, kitchen and your bedrooms. The back part could be turned into a reception area and consultation rooms.”

  Something about her aunt’s wording rang a warning bell. “You’ve already been talking to someone about this? Someone other than Pearly Mae?”