Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels

by Susan Gabriel

  Queenie greets her and Angela asks Queenie if she can bum a cigarette. After lighting it Angela inhales and rolls her eyes with pleasure before a long exhale.

  “I quit ten years ago,” Angela says. “But I still need one every now and again. Especially today for some reason.”

  “This crowd could intimidate the Queen of England,” Queenie says.

  Angela smiles. “I thought it was just me.”

  “Lord, no,” Queenie says. “There are enough Republicans here to throw a national convention.”

  “No wonder I feel so outnumbered,” Angela says.

  “You’re not alone, honey,” Queenie says. “If we confiscated all the Rolex watches at this reception, we could feed a third world country for a year.”

  The two women laugh. The more uncomfortable Queenie is, the funnier she gets. But the two grow quiet. She has run out of lines.

  “This is a beautiful garden,” Angela says, as she glances around.

  “I played here when I was a little girl,” Queenie says. “My father was Edward Temple. Katie’s grandfather.”

  “Oh,” Angela says, as she blushes her surprise.

  “It happens sometimes,” Queenie says.

  “For what it’s worth, my father had an affair with his secretary,” Angela says. “He sold insurance. I don’t think any children came of it,” she adds. “Although I guess it’s entirely possible.”

  “Humans are complex,” Queenie says.

  “And stupid,” Angela says.

  “Amen, Sister.” Queenie giggles.

  Angela offers a cautious smile, as if Queenie might be one of those Bible-thumping Baptists she’s heard about. But Queenie isn’t a Bible-thumping anything.

  “So what do think of Katie’s family?” Queenie asks, thinking it best to leave the subject of religion alone.

  “I can honestly say they are not at all what I expected,” Angela says.

  “What did you expect?”

  “I was thinking Deliverance, not Gone with the Wind,” Angela says.

  They laugh again.

  Queenie is curious about Angela and Katie’s relationship. Love fascinates her, especially since she has very little experience in the art. Actually, Queenie is probably the least experienced person in Savannah in regards to intimate relationships.

  A persistent ray of sunlight dances off the piercings on Angela’s nose and bottom lip.

  Those piercings must have hurt like hell when they went it, Queenie thinks. She is too cowardly to even pierce her ears.

  Queenie flips over a stone under the magnolia tree to reveal a tiny graveyard of cigarette butts. They add two more that sizzle in the wet earth.

  “Our secret?” Queenie says, looking at the butts.

  “Our secret,” Angela agrees.

  Secrets like this Queenie can handle. The ones that don’t involve lawsuits or death threats. Or the one of Queenie’s she fears will make certain people hate her. Those secrets are best left buried under a rock with a bunch of cigarette butts.

  The side gate squeaks open. Queenie and Angela turn to look. Edward walks into the garden surveying the outside of the Temple property like he does the inside. Every time he is in the Temple home, he acts like a landlord trying to catch renters doing something wrong.

  What will Edward do if Queenie gets the house like Iris promised? She doesn’t anticipate that it will go over very well, even if he inherits the lion’s share of property and investments. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t lived in the Temple house for over forty years; his sense of ownership is undeniable.

  When he sees them, Edward lifts his eyebrows as though a judgment rides on his thoughts. She has never forgiven him for what he tried to do to Violet years ago. But even without that, she would still think he was an ass.

  Without saying a word, Edward strides past them and walks through the back door into the kitchen.

  “We’d better see what he’s up to,” Queenie says.

  Queenie leads the way into the kitchen where Edward has begun to quiz Violet on her qualifications for running the Temple household, as though conducting an impromptu job interview.

  “I’ve worked for your mother for twenty years,” Violet says. “I think that more than speaks for my qualifications.”

  Good for you, Queenie thinks. She’s proud that someone in her bloodline has the gumption to stand up to Edward.

  “I think I’ll go find Katie,” Angela says to Queenie. “I’ve seen way too many egotistical white men for one day.”

  Edward and Angela exchange looks, as if they have summed each other up and are still in negative numbers. Meanwhile, Queenie keeps an eye on Violet and wonders if Edward even mourns his mother. He doesn’t appear to.

  “Can I help you with something, Edward?”

  He huffs like Iris used to do, as though Queenie’s help is the last thing he needs. Without answering, he exits the kitchen into the dining room. A blast of frigid air follows him out the door and Queenie can almost swear she just heard Iris let out a short laugh.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rose

  Rose mingles in the living room, receiving condolences, hearing more perfunctory comments about how wonderful her mother was, knowing full well that nobody believes it. Her mother was not sweet or caring, nor will she be greatly missed. She was, as Queenie would say, a royal pain in the backside, to friends and foes alike.

  In fact, it wouldn’t surprise Rose if there were an after-party following the reception where these same mourners celebrated having her mother finally gone. But in the meantime, Rose thanks them for their condolences and tells them each how fondly her mother spoke of them, proving she can lie as well as anybody.

  At the same time, it strikes her as one of the few times her mother might have been proud of her for being a Temple. Rose is acting. She is onstage. She is playing the good daughter, the gracious hostess. And her mother, the main critic in her life, is not around to judge her for her performance. Or is she? All afternoon, she has had a distinct feeling of being watched.

  Edward enters the living room and goose flesh crawls up Rose’s arm. He greets several men from the country club and shakes hands like a politician trying to win votes. He is acting, too. A slight smile remains plastic on his face, mixed with an appropriate tinge of grief. He turns and walks in her direction.

  “Shit,” she says, under her breath.

  Her first instinct is to duck into the kitchen, but it’s too late. She doesn’t want to give Edward the pleasure of seeing her retreat. Not that she could make a quick exit anyway, after all she has eaten. Her stomach feels like a shrimp trawler after a big haul.

  “Hello, little sister,” Edward says. His smile holds firm through capped and gritted teeth.

  “Hello, Edward,” Rose says, with a shiver. Is it suddenly colder in here?

  “How long do you plan on staying in Savannah?” Edward asks.

  “I’ll be taking an early flight out tomorrow,” she says.

  Edward sips his drink. Rose has forgotten how freely the alcohol flows in Savannah.

  One day at a time, she tells herself. However, this is turning into a very long day.

  “So were you with our dear mother when she passed?” Edward asks. He glances around the room.

  “As a matter of fact, I was,” Rose says.

  “I hope I didn’t miss anything,” Edward says. His gaze turns to Rose, an eyebrow raised.

  “Not a thing,” Rose says, without expression.

  “By the way, where’s that cowboy husband of yours?” Edward says.

  Does he even remember Max’s name? she wonders. “He’s back at the ranch,” she says.

  Edward extends his smile, as though he finds someone working on a ranch amusing. The less information Rose gives her brother the better. Otherwise, he will find a way to use it against her. It is a gift he has. Edward even blamed Rose for the accident with the sword when they were children. He told her parents that it was Rose’s idea that they play Cowboys a
nd Indians and her idea that he get the sword from the weapons case.

  Like a five-year old would come up with such an idea? she thinks.

  Goose flesh rises on Rose’s arms again and a shot of cold air brushes past her. She wonders if their mother is eavesdropping.

  “Did you ever get married, Edward?” Rose asks. Her question comes out more pointed than she intends, but she offers no apology.

  “I’m married to my work,” Edward says. “She’s a sweet bitch of a wife, too.” He narrows his eyes, as if to say: Is that the best you’ve got?

  Ever since they were young, everything was a contest. Edward can put a spin on anything so that he comes out the winner. It doesn’t matter what the truth is. It is all about winning the game.

  The smell of rotten eggs causes Rose to cover her nose. Her olfactory sense is worn out from the day. Edward doesn’t seem to notice the smell.

  “Well, enjoy your trip home,” Edward says. “I’ve got to do more damage control around those damn secrets. Nobody seems to have a clue who’s doing it. Is it you?”

  “Me?” Rose asks, taking a step back.

  Edward smiles again, as if Rose’s defensiveness gives him the advantage.

  “I’m surprised you don’t have possession of the book yourself, Edward. You always were the most likely heir of the Temple weapons, including the Book of Secrets.”

  Before he has time to respond, a brick flies through a window in the sunroom. Rose ducks and covers her head. She looks for Katie. Somebody screams. Chaos follows. The crowd gathers in the hallway, forming a semi-circle around the lone brick. Whoever threw it had a good arm. The sunroom juts out from the house but is still a good twenty feet or so away from the gate.

  Edward runs outside, but whoever did it is long gone. Several people take this disruption as an opportunity to leave. Katie finds Rose, and Angela takes notes like her new book has morphed into a crime novel. As Queenie disposes of the brick, Violet sweeps up the glass, the only real danger of anyone getting hurt. The brick was clearly a message, not a threat. The message, Rose imagines, is that people are pissed.

  A man about her age, tall and impeccably dressed, approaches Rose. He asks if he can speak with her. She excuses herself from Katie and notes that one side of his mustache is shorter than the other, as though his aim was slightly off while shaving that morning. He introduces himself as her mother’s attorney.

  Despite the recent crisis and the humidity of the day, Bo Rivers’ handshake is cool and dry. He has the tan of someone who plays golf daily or spends a great deal of time on a sailboat. His aftershave is expensive and understated—one of the few fragrances in the room that isn’t intentionally overdone. Unlike the other men attending the reception, he hasn’t removed his suit coat, as if to further prove his inability to sweat, even after a brick is thrown through a nearby window.

  “Can you come to my office next Monday, say around one o’clock?” he asks. His accent reeks of old Savannah. “We have some things we need to discuss.”

  “Next Monday?” Rose’s return ticket is booked for tomorrow. Monday extends her stay by three days and she is ready to be home. “Can’t we do this over the telephone?” she asks. It seems a bit old fashioned to do things this way. But if Savannah is anything, it is old fashioned.

  Bo Rivers takes one step closer and lowers his voice. “I think you’ll want to be there in person.”

  “What’s this about?” Rose asks.

  Directness is practiced infrequently in this part of the country, but she’d like to know if it is bad news or good before she extends her stay.

  “I don’t think this is the time to talk about it,” Bo Rivers says, his answer predictable. His glance around the room stops at Edward, who is watching them. Bo Rivers tips his chin upward, as if refusing to be intimidated. “So it’s settled then, Monday afternoon, one o’clock?” he asks, turning to Rose.

  She nods her consent.

  “My condolences again for the passing of your lovely mother,” Bo Rivers says, making Rose’s mother sound much lovelier than she actually was.

  Within seconds of his leaving, Katie returns to Rose’s side.

  “What was that about?” she asks. “You looked so serious.”

  “Mother’s attorney wants to meet with me Monday afternoon.”

  “Monday? I thought you were leaving tomorrow.”

  “I was,” Rose says. “But he seemed adamant that I attend.”

  “Do you want me to stay, too?” Katie asks.

  Her daughter has always been protective of her and she isn’t sure why. Although, she now wishes someone had protected her from all this food she’s eaten.

  “No, honey. There’s no need to stay,” Rose says. “You need to get back to work and so does …” Rose pauses, unable to think of the name of Katie’s latest girlfriend.

  “Her name is Angela, Mom, and she’s very important to me,” Katie says.

  “Sorry, honey, it’s been a big day,” Rose says.

  “For us, too.” Katie yawns revealing a silver ball pierced into her tongue.

  “You got one of those?” she asks, with a moan.

  Katie smiles, as if she enjoys shocking her mother. “You’re so predictable, Mom.”

  “And unpredictable is better?” Rose says. She thinks again of the brick.

  “Don’t start,” Katie says, giving Rose a playful nudge. “If you’re okay, I’ll go mingle again,” she adds. “Everybody’s talking about some book your mother kept and a bunch of secrets. Do you know about it?”

  “Unfortunately I do,” Rose says. “The Temples are infamous for collecting secrets of the wealthy here in Savannah. It’s how my mother always gets her way. Or ‘got’ her way, I should say.”

  “Wow, Mom, your family is really interesting,” she says. “I’ve never been to a funeral where there were protestors and people threw bricks through windows.”

  “It’s your family, too, sweetheart,” Rose says, her smile glib.

  “I keep forgetting that,” Katie says.

  Despite a few minor differences having to do with current cultural trends, Rose prides herself in how well she and Katie get along. They have always been close, and as an only child, Katie seemed to get along better with adults. The closest she’s come to a teenage rebellion is with her latest body art and tongue piercing.

  Rose glances at the familiar strangers in the room, the ones who couldn’t be dissuaded by a brick. It occurs to her why they are here. Is her mother really dead? Before the funeral, she surprised herself with a good cry. In fact, she still feels a bit hung-over from the emotion, although she feels better now that she has finally eaten. Or overeaten, she thinks.

  Regardless, she is grateful to have Katie here. Like Max, Katie helps her stay calm and reminds her of her present, rather than her past. However, there are parts of her past—Queenie, Old Sally, Violet—that she has truly missed.

  While she hasn’t missed the drama, what surprises her most is how much she has missed the land—the tidal pools and tributaries, the meandering marshland, the live oaks, the Spanish moss that graces nearly every tree. She’s missed the azaleas, the rich green moss that grows in every garden, the people rich with secrets and gossip. Rose has missed people of color most of all. People in all their many shades.

  Thomas Wolfe says you can’t go home again, but Rose finally feels free to do just that. It is much more than being back in her old room or back in the house she grew up in. It is like sliding back into her skin and becoming one with the rich, moist low country of Georgia. This landscape is in her soul.

  Queenie approaches, a glass of red wine in her hand. Rose is struck again by that feeling of having someone glad to see her. Fortunately, she can return the feeling.

  “I’m glad your mother wasn’t alive to see someone throw a brick through the window,” Queenie says. “And to think I was complaining earlier about how dull the event was.”

  “Hopefully, that’s the end of the excitement for the day,” Rose says
.

  “We’ll see,” Queenie says.

  Within seconds a soft chanting can be heard coming from outside. Rose listens carefully to make out the words: Secrets, no! Book’s gotta go! Secrets, no! Book’s gotta go!

  “I’ll drink to that,” Queenie says.

  Rose holds up her glass of tonic water and salutes. They clink glasses. Twenty years before, there would have been vodka in her glass. But drinking for Rose was never about celebration. It was about forgetting. And she isn’t willing to forget anymore.

  After entering the dining room, Violet straightens various serving trays and then picks up empty glasses and used napkins. Rose asks if she can help, but Violet declines her offer. On the way back into the kitchen Violet stops and glances out toward the street to see the chanters, and then shrugs like nothing surprises her anymore.

  “By the way, did you turn up the air conditioner?” Rose asks her. “It’s very cold in here.”

  “It’s Miss Temple,” Violet says, turning to face Rose and Queenie. “She’s crashing her own wake.”

  “That sounds like something Old Sally would say,” Rose says.

  Queenie agrees.

  “I take that as a great compliment,” Violet says.

  “By the way, I smelled rotten eggs earlier,” Rose says. “At first I thought it was Edward, but maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s Mother.”

  “Oh my, this is just what Mama was afraid of,” Queenie says with a tsk.

  “Ignore Miss Temple if you can,” Violet says. “That’s what I do. Try to ignore the chanting, too.”

  Rose has tried to ignore her mother for the past twenty-five years and she’s not sure what good it’s done. Earlier today, she finally felt free. But it seems her deceased mother isn’t exactly cooperating. As if to offer commentary, another current of cold air slides across her arm. She rubs away a new crop of goose bumps.

  “Well, I think Iris would be pleased with the reception,” Queenie says to Rose. “I followed all your instructions to the letter. Didn’t I, Iris?” She glances up, as if expecting an answer from the chandelier.