by Viqui Litman
“Well, the gravel business is only part of it.” Della, with her elbows propped on the table, opened her hands palms up and extended them toward Melissa. “Hugh … Hugh is very angry with us. And he sees a chance to make a lot of money … for you, too, Melissa. So he’s changed his mind about letting us buy out your mother’s interest in the Ladies Farm.”
“He told me that he had an offer from Castlebury Dairy,” Melissa recalled. “But he told me you all could meet the offer and he’d take it.”
“Well, he did say that.” Della studied Melissa, who exhibited confusion but no rancor. “But he actually wants a little more than Castleburg’s offering. Did he mention that?”
“No,” said Melissa. “Why would he do that?”
Della chuckled and leaned forward a little, holding Melissa’s gaze. “Honey, Hugh sees a way to make y’all a lot of money, but it does involve throwing us off the Ladies Farm. And it’s pretty risky.”
“But we agreed we want you all to have the Ladies Farm!”
Della pressed her lips together. “I know. But your brother learned some things that might justify a change of heart, at least in his mind. I’m hoping you don’t agree. But Melissa,” Della said, “I think you should hear what those things are.”
Melissa threw her hands up in surrender. “Go ahead, Aunt Dell. Shock me.”
“Barbara had a one-night stand with your father. And I had a long, long affair with Richard. Morrison.”
Melissa stared.
“Shocked yet?”
Melissa nodded but stayed silent.
“The business between Barbara and your dad was a one-time event that shook everyone up, and they all—your mom and dad and the Morrisons—settled back down and remained friends. Good friends,” Della said emphatically.
“And you and Uncle Richard?” Melissa’s voice was quiet and quavered only a little.
Della wished for the millionth time that Hugh and Pauline had not insisted on those stupid aunt and uncle titles. It made everything sound more incestuous. “That was a little more involved,” Della said.
“Does Aunt Barbara know?”
Della shook her head. “Not about me. And, no matter what happens between us or with Hugh, I am asking you to promise that you’ll never tell her. She thinks … we are her friends. No matter what happened. We’re the ones she came to. It wouldn’t do any good, it would be cruel, to ever tell her that the ones she trusted most—”
“Well, I certainly won’t ever tell,” Melissa said. “But I don’t really see why Hugh would be mad at you.”
“Oh,” Della waved a hand in the air, “he’s not mad, just disgusted, maybe. And he sees it as a way to make a little extra.”
“What do you mean?”
Quickly, Della ran through the choices Hugh Jr. had given her: Either she, with or without the others, paid a ridiculous price for the Ladies Farm, or Hugh Jr. threw them out, sold to Castleburg, and exposed her secret to Barbara.
“Hugh wouldn’t do that!”
Della said nothing and waited for Melissa to consider the situation.
“He said he would?” Melissa queried. Della nodded. Then Melissa changed gears and grinned. “What did he say about Dad and Aunt Barbara? And how did he find out, anyway?”
“You know, Melissa, your mother,” Della drew in a sharp breath, “your mother was our confidante. We told her everything. It’s just that none of us was her confidante.” She shook her head. “She had her journals. She told her journals. That’s where Hugh found out about that one night.”
Melissa reached toward her, but Della shook her off. “That’s where Hugh read about your mother’s shock on seeing Barbara’s ring … that first day that Barbara showed up. Richard had it made from a large amethyst your dad gave him. Your mother … when she saw it she said she didn’t know Hugh—your father—had given it to Richard. It must have shocked her, Melissa.”
“Well, of course. Thinking about Daddy and Barbara—” Melissa broke off in a giggle. “Aunt Barbara and Daddy! I can’t believe it!”
“Believe it,” Della advised, not sure what was so amusing but fearing it might be the sheer improbability to Melissa that her father or any of his contemporaries could have had sex, let alone illicit sex with friends’ spouses or spouses’ friends.
“Where did this happen? At our house? At the Morrisons’? Don’t say Daddy took her to some motel!”
“Melissa, I don’t know the details. I only know what Barbara told me, which is that it happened once; it caused Richard, in her opinion, to become wildly unfaithful; it helped your parents decide to move out of the city; and the shock of recalling it—or maybe the shock of seeing Barbara’s amethyst—may have contributed to your mother’s heart attack. At least, that’s what your brother seems to think.” Della shook her head. “To be honest, it was one night a long time ago and hardly a reason to deny a dying woman a little peace.”
Melissa shook her head. “You’re saying Mother died of shock? From recalling Daddy’s little fling with Aunt Barbara?”
“I’m saying that’s what your brother believes. Maybe. Which may make it a whole lot easier in his mind to mine gravel at the Ladies Farm.” She took a breath. “The reason I came here, Melissa … the reason I need your help … is that we want to keep the Ladies Farm. We have to keep the Ladies Farm. Because, Melissa, you understand: We need a place for Barbara to die.”
“I didn’t think of that.” Melissa slumped back in her chair, and her gaze fixed on the wildflowers that adorned the tabletop. Bluebonnets. Wine cups. Indian paintbrush. Yellow coreopsis. Pressed flat, then laminated.
Della waited.
“I don’t … why can’t we just wait until … we don’t have to do this gravel deal immediately.”
Della spoke gently. “The Castleburg offer goes away if Hugh can’t deliver in time to dig pretty much all together.”
“Maybe we could sign the deal but not dig right away,” Melissa offered.
“Maybe,” Della acknowledged. “But I think it has to do with the economies of mining the whole thing at one time. In any case, this deal kills the Ladies Farm.” Della felt her eyes starting to brim and turned slightly from Melissa’s gaze. Who would have guessed she’d wax sentimental over a marginal bed and breakfast in a nothing town?
“Oh, I’ll talk to Hugh.” Melissa waved a hand in the air as she spoke. “Surely he can delay the gravel mining at least until … you know, until Aunt Barbara dies.”
Della choked back her alarm. “Of course. Talk to your brother. If there’s any way to get him to relent, we should try that.”
“You don’t think he will?” Melissa stood up and took both tea mugs with her to the sink. “Do you want more tea?”
“Look, you know him lots better than I do.” Della stood and stretched.
“Do you want to buy us out?” Melissa asked.
Della smiled at Melissa. “It’s become home, you know. Of course, we could barely meet the Castleburg offer. I don’t know how we … how I … can pay the price for his silence too.”
Melissa turned from the stove where she had set the kettle. “I’ll talk to Hugh,” Melissa said again.
Della resumed her study of the kitchen. It was a white and gray no-nonsense workroom, with a sink and grill-equipped island and a large window overlooking a redwood deck. But the counters were topped with canisters shaped like cartoon characters, and children’s drawings adorned the stainless steel refrigerator and the bulletin board over the built-in desk.
The tea kettle whistled the end of their break. In a few minutes they were back at the table. Neither one of them had touched the cookies.
Melissa sipped tentatively from her steaming mug and drew back from the heat. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Sell us your interest in the Ladies Farm.”
“To you and Aunt Kat?”
“And Rita.”
“And Rita,” Melissa repeated.
“We’ll pay the full appraisal,” Della hastened to assu
re her. “You won’t really lose a penny. It just won’t be gravel money.”
Melissa shook her head. “I don’t know. I have to talk to Hugh.”
“What do you think Hugh will do when you tell him you want him to sell to us at the appraisal price?” Della queried.
“I guess he won’t be happy,” Melissa conceded. “But I think if I talk to him … after all, it’s half mine. If I don’t sell with him, and Aunt Barbara doesn’t sell, then …”
“Then it all falls apart,” Della finished. “Unless, of course, Hugh can convince Barbara she has a reason to join—”
“Oh, my God! Aunt Dell! You think he’ll tell … oh, he couldn’t do that!”
Of course he could! Of course he would! she wanted to scream, but Della merely pressed her lips together and looked at Melissa.
“He’d tell her?” Melissa shook her head. When Della didn’t reply, Melissa said, “I can’t just sell to you. Without at least talking to my brother, hearing his side. And Greg,” she said as if just remembering she had a husband. “I have to talk to Greg.”
“I won’t push you, Melissa.” Della reached out to stroke Melissa’s hand as it rested on the table. “But I want you to understand, it’s not for myself. I mean, I’ll be embarrassed if Hugh tells secrets,” she closed her eyes for a second, trying not to imagine it, trying not to see Barbara’s face, “but for Barbara, it would be the worst thing we could do to her. The worst thing I could do. And that’s so cruel, Melissa. No matter how anyone feels about Barbara.”
“No one wants to hurt Aunt Barbara,” Melissa said. “But I can’t … it’s … I have to think about it.”
“I understand,” Della told her. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
“Oh, Aunt Dell, I’m so sorry!” Melissa was beside her now, her soft hair brushing Della’s face, her arm strong around her shoulder. “Oh, God! Of course I won’t tell anyone, ever!”
Della put a hand out and drew the girl’s head to her chest. She stroked the soft mane saved by Barbara’s buzz cut and tried to remember how hard it was to lose people you love. Jamie’s image—Jamie the way he’d been when he played with Melissa Freschatte and Dickie Morrison—blurred her vision and the feel of Melissa’s hair made all those children seem real to her. “Your mother loved you so much,” she told Melissa, holding her and rocking her. “So very much.”
Della had no idea how long they stayed locked like that, but eventually Melissa pulled away and sat back up. “This is just a lot to deal with,” she said, shaking her head and rubbing at her eyes. Like Pauline, she wore no makeup and her eyes, even red from crying, were round and luminous.
Della smiled weakly. “Life is full of surprises.”
“Surprises!” Melissa laughed. “These are like explosions! No wonder Hugh’s so mad!” Her tone grew confidential. “You know, it’s always a surprise to learn you’re not the center of your parents’ universe. Taylor got up in the middle of the night one night and came down to get a drink and saw us dancing—oh, I mean jumping around, singing disco tunes and laughing … we were hysterical—and just got furious. I think he felt we’d betrayed him, having fun together like that, without him!”
“At least you had your clothes on.”
Melissa shot her a quick look. “Yes. We do manage to do that in front of the kids.”
Della looked down at the table and ran her hand over the surface. If you paid attention, you could feel that it wasn’t perfectly flat, as if the laminate had followed the contours of some landscape, forming subtle swells and valleys. “You know,” she said slowly, “we burdened your mother with our secrets. I did and I know the others did, too. She was such a good friend, such a trustworthy confidante. It’s funny: In all this, the hardest part has been not having your mother to talk to.”
“Yeah.” Melissa reached over and took her hand. Then she looked at her own table. “You like this?” she asked. She motioned at the wildflowers. “Mom pressed these for me for over a year, then brought them to me right after Taylor was born.” She gathered the cups and the plate of cookies and took them over to the sink.
Della read the signal to leave, and rose.
“That surface is almost indestructible.” Melissa chatted on as she rinsed the mugs and put the cookies back in a blown-glass cookie jar.
She returned to the table with a damp rag and wiped nonexistent crumbs from the tabletop.
Della exited no less anxious than she had arrived, telling Melissa, as she hugged her once more, what a wonderful child she was and how much joy she had brought her mother.
“I’ll call you,” Melissa promised her, walking her onto the landing for the long staircase down the hill. “I won’t do anything that—well, I’ll try not to—hurt anyone. You, Aunt Barb, my brother …”
Della gave Melissa a quick kiss and stroked her cheek. “You take care,” Della said. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
“You’re going home now?” Melissa asked.
“No,” Della said, starting down the redwood steps. “New York. More business. Then home.”
Chapter 16
She had booked a plain, midtown hotel. It was hosting a convention of community theater directors and, when asked if she were attending, Della replied yes without hesitation, thereby qualifying for the convention rate.
Early conventioneers were invited to assemble in the lobby for a look at a new off-Broadway drama by a promising young playwright. That should fit the bill, Della thought, shouldering her bag and marching to the elevator. She had no intention of spending a night in New York alone in her room.
The room, which offered a view of a brick wall and, far below, some sort of paved utility area, was clean and, by New York standards, spacious. Della checked the lock and secured the chain and pulled the drapes against what little sunlight reached her room. Then, seated on the bed, she unzipped her duffel and rummaged inside until she retrieved the velvet bag.
Carefully, Della poured the diamonds onto the handkerchief she had left in the bag. She spread them against the cloth and tried to imagine Richard as he presented each one to Barbara. Were they at dinner? In the car? Did he slip it onto her dessert plate when she’d gone to the ladies’ room?
Della picked up the marquise and balanced it on the back of her ring finger, imagining it in a gold setting. Something simple, she thought. Maybe just baguettes on either side.
There are politics to diamonds, she reminded herself. Their value is inflated by a tightly controlled market. Their sparkle is dimmed by the exploitation of the workers laboring in the mines. Their meaning has been shaped by ad campaigns.
Still balancing the diamond, Della turned her hand a little. Even in the dim light, the stone sparkled.
Something that lasts, she imagined him saying. Something of value. He would place it on Barbara’s breakfast tray when he brought it in the morning, the way she had described to Della. And Barbara would clutch it close to her, and keep it where no one could see, bringing it out when she needed the reminder that he was her husband forever.
It’s just a lump of coal squeezed tight, Della thought, tucking the marquise back in the velvet pouch. A man could give you a million of them and it wouldn’t mean anything.
Carefully, she replaced the rest of the stones in the pouch and placed the pouch in her shoulder bag. You’re just a hick from Texas, Della thought. No one expects you to carry an evening bag.
She showered and dressed, then joined a group in the lobby. They walked together to a small restaurant featuring Jamaican food.
“I wish we had one of these in Tulsa,” the man next to her commented. They were eating jerked chicken and a vegetable medley, the contents of which Della could not identify. She smiled and nodded at the man, whose name was Tom. “So, which theater are you with?” he asked.
“Oh, none really. I’m just along for the ride. My, uh, friend, Pauline Freschatte, directs a theater in Fort—uh—Wayne—you know, Indiana—and she invited me to be her roommate here. It’s a treat for me.”
“Oh, I’ll have to look for her in the workshops,” he said.
“Yes. I told her I’d give her a full report on this production since she couldn’t be here.”
The charade worked for the length of the evening. Not much of a deception for a woman of her experience, but, Della reflected, the perfect way to keep her mind occupied the night before she sold the diamonds.
As an exercise in thoroughness, she penned a note to Pauline on hotel stationery when she returned to her room. Thin plot, clever dialogue, minimal set investment, three-character cast. Consider it.
In the morning, before she checked out, Della set fire to the note with a book of hotel matches and watched the ashes settle into the bathroom sink. Then she shouldered her bags and left.
Barbara had written the man’s name and address in the detailed instructions Della carried with her. When she called, Della learned that the man, Max Jacoby, had died, but that his brother, David, remembered Richard and had been charged with honoring Max’s commitment to repurchase the diamonds.
Merely stepping from the hotel lobby into the cab exposed Della to a big dose of exhaust fumes. Even the crisp morning couldn’t alleviate the moist, gritty feel of the air. “A warm one today,” the cab driver told her after she gave him the address.
I should have walked, she thought, watching pedestrians pass her as she sat in traffic. But the image of herself traversing Manhattan with a sack full of diamonds slung over her shoulder reassured her that she had made the correct decision.
“You shop for jewelry?” the driver asked.
“Jewelry? Perhaps. I have a business meeting.”
“Ah. Jewelry business. You like jewelry?”
Della couldn’t place the lilting accent.
“My cousin has jewelry shop. Right here.” He pointed to the passenger window, and Della saw a row of stores offering windows full of jumbled goods: radios, watches, handbags, shavers. “You want to meet him?”
“I’m afraid I have an appointment and must go on,” Della demurred. She pictured the headlines. CABBIE HIJACKS DIAMOND QUEEN. TEXAS DIAMOND QUEEN. CABBIE & COUSIN HIJACK TEXAS DIAMOND QUEEN. FIGHTING TO SAVE FARM CLAIMS BEAUTY ON WAY TO CASH IN DIAMONDS. Well, maybe AGING BEAUTY.
