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

by Susan Gabriel

  Violet laughs and then looks around the kitchen for things she should be doing. Until now, she didn’t realize how all-consuming taking care of Miss Temple was. For years Violet had a set routine. First thing in the mornings, after she arrived at work, she read the critique from the day before and made adjustments to the day’s meals. Between cooking, she cleaned the house, a never ending process.

  “I don’t think any of our neighbors will miss her,” Violet says. “I’ve gotten an earful from every housekeeper in Savannah. None of their employers liked Miss Temple, though most everybody feared her.”

  “Nobody escaped those letters of hers,” Queenie says. “If she disapproved of anything you did, she wrote whoever she thought was your superior a letter, whether it was the Governor, the President of the United States or the Pope. Iris took being a tattle-tale to an international level.”

  Queenie delivers the scrambled eggs to the table.

  “Did you get the newspaper this morning?” Queenie asks. “It wasn’t there when I looked.”

  “The delivery boy seems to have missed us,” Violet says. “Either that or somebody took it.”

  “Are things still disappearing off the front porch?” Queenie looks concerned.

  “Three potted plants yesterday,” Violet says, “but they left two very full doggy poop bags. Whoever is leaving those must have Dalmatians.”

  Queenie grins. “Is this ever going to stop?” she asks, turning serious again.

  “I hope so,” Violet says. “The whole neighborhood seems effected. I’ve heard from more than one housekeeper on the block that arguments have increased since the newspaper started running those secrets.”

  The door opens and Rose comes in from a long walk. She looks wilted, like an azalea blossom cut from the main bush and left to languish in the heat.

  “An old lady in a purple bathrobe just called me a traitor,” Rose says, her face flushed.

  “That’s nothing,” Queenie says, “I’ve been called the a-word, the b-word, and the c-word, all in one sentence.”

  “Wow, that’s creative,” Rose says.

  “I guess we’re all in this together,” Violet says. “In fact, this may be the perfect time to do the sea gypsy’s secret handshake.”

  Without hesitation, the three women gather in the center of the kitchen and begin the handshake: two claps, three arm rolls, a hip bump and then ending with arms akimbo while shaking their heads up and down. They laugh.

  “Not bad after thirty years,” Rose says.

  “Not good either,” Violet says, but the silliness is what she needs on such a serious day.

  “Come to think of it, there isn’t even a handshake as part of it,” Queenie says. “I never noticed that before.”

  “I don’t know how I would have survived growing up without you girls,” Rose says.

  “Me, too,” Violet says. “Even without parents around, I felt like I had a family.”

  “I need Mother to show up with one of those cool blasts of air.” Rose fans herself.

  “Be careful what you ask for.” Queenie smiles.

  “Miss Temple hasn’t made an appearance since the reception,” Violet says. “I think she’s saving up for something big.”

  They agree that this can’t be good.

  That afternoon, Violet and Queenie ride together to Bo Rivers’ law office in downtown Savannah. Violet has never been in this building before. With equal amounts of white marble and glass, it is one of those places built by rich white people to impress other rich white people. On the ground floor, they get into the elevator, the doors close and they take a slow ride to the third floor. A secretary lets them wait in Attorney Rivers’ office. They are the first to arrive.

  Portraits of old white men adorn the walls in dark wooden frames that match the furniture.

  “Just once I’d like to see black men and women on the walls,” Violet whispers to Queenie, even though nobody else is in the room. But it is Savannah, after all, and despite its problems, she loves this city.

  “I know what you mean about the white faces,” Queenie says. “Sometimes I have fantasies about asking Rose to do my portrait so I can put it in the foyer of the mansion. Then my smiling face will greet everyone who enters.”

  “You should do that,” Violet says, with a smile.

  “I would, but I’m afraid Iris might do more than roll over in her grave. She might send me to mine.”

  Violet and Queenie sit together on a large leather sofa in front of an entire wall covered with floor to ceiling bookcases holding law books.

  “Those must be hell to dust,” Violet whispers again.

  Queenie agrees and picks up the newspaper on the coffee table to read since theirs never arrived.

  Being in Bo Rivers’ office is like stepping into that walk-in cooler Queenie talked about earlier. Violet crosses her arms over her chest to hide her body’s reaction to the cold. She should have known better than to dress for summer. Air conditioners in Savannah could keep an igloo from melting. The thermostat at the Temple house was guarded religiously by Miss Temple, who kept it set at 76 degrees. But this office must be set in the low 60s. Violet half expects to see her frosty breath in front of her.

  Despite the frigid temperature Violet breaks into a sweat. She doesn’t want to be here. “If I’m going to be fired, I wish someone would just tell me,” she whispers again. “Why make such a big production out of it?”

  “You’re not going to get fired,” Queenie whispers back. “Iris had a wicked mean streak, but she wasn’t that horrible.”

  Queenie turns to the classifieds and within seconds lets out a muffled scream: “Oh, my living God!” She points to the newspaper as Violet reads:

  HELP WANTED:

  People of Color, Housekeeper willing to Slave all day

  and Sleep with the Master of the House

  Call Iris Temple: 912-944-0455

  “Who the hell is doing this?” Queenie says.

  Violet assures her that she doesn’t know, but it doesn’t help that the ad is for a housekeeper. Perhaps whoever is planting these secrets knows her job is in jeopardy. Or maybe she’s reading too much into it. She’s been known to do that, too.

  It’s now weeks since the first secret was released and they are still clueless as to who is behind it. Whoever it is not only has access to the Book of Secrets, but to the newspaper, too. Otherwise, why would they ever agree to run them? Although, she imagines those secrets have sold more than a few newspapers.

  The door opens and Spud enters. They exchange looks of surprise. He leans over and hugs Violet and then shakes Queenie’s hand. Oddly, his outfit matches hers. Queenie’s jungle motif goes with his white suit that looks like it might be a leftover from the 80s, and his shirt is lime green. They look like they are both on a safari and want to blend in with the jungle. Spud stands against the wall and except for the periodic straightening of his purple bow tie, looks about as uncomfortable as Violet feels. She has never seen him this nervous.

  Queenie shoves the newspaper under a stack of Georgia Now magazines like the will is all she can deal with for now. Violet feels the same. This time last year her life was totally predictable and more than a little boring. Now, she can’t imagine what might happen next.

  “Where in the world does he get all those ties?” Queenie whispers to Violet. “Do they even make those things anymore?”

  “They must,” Violet says, thinking how Queenie and Spud are much more alike than they are different in their preference for bold colors.

  “Does anyone know why we’re here?” Spud asks, his voice full amid their whispers.

  “Evidently for the reading of the will,” Queenie says.

  “Then why am I required to be here?” Spud straightens his tie, looking perplexed now, as well as uncomfortable.

  The question goes unanswered. Silence fills the room while the discomfort settles.

  What if her grandmother is right about Miss Temple dropping a bombshell? If so, they are
all standing at ground zero.

  Rose enters, says her hellos, and sits in a leather chair to the left of the desk. Since she was running late, she told them to go ahead and drove herself. Her short, thick hair still looks wet from her shower. She shakes Spud’s hand and introduces herself before silence settles in again. She gives Queenie and Violet a wink, as if she is familiar with their secret code.

  Minutes later, the door opens again and Edward Temple steps inside.

  “Creep alert,” Queenie whispers to Violet.

  Violet smiles. “Let me guess. You got that from Tia and Leisha?”

  Queenie nods. Violet loves the effort Queenie makes with her daughters. Not that many great aunts would be so doting.

  Edward eyes the collection of people, aiming his intense gaze for several seconds on Rose as if surprised she’s there. He takes a seat close to the lawyer’s desk. Is it possible that the room got even colder with Edward here? Violet’s teeth begin to chatter, and she clenches her jaw to stop them. She doesn’t want Edward to mistake her coldness for fear. But even Edward seems agitated. Perhaps the latest secret has him on edge, too. Meanwhile, the Temple drama seems far from over.

  In a trait that reminds Violet of his mother, Edward sits perfectly straight. After he crosses his legs, he runs two manicured fingernails along the crease of his pants as though wanting to perfect the perfect line. There are few people Violet dislikes, but Edward Temple tops her list.

  Seconds later the lawyer enters the room, papers stacked in hand. His smile looks fake and he gives a nod to Edward, the other rich white guy in the room. Violet’s only dealings with Bo Rivers were answering the door on the two occasions when he joined his father who was calling on Miss Temple. He always wanted his coffee black and made comments about watching his waistline. He flirted with Violet, too. But not enough that she could actually call him on it. She imagines his preference for women to be younger and blonder, like the secretary who showed them into the office.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable.” Bo Rivers’ accent has the smoothness of one of Violet’s meringues that always get compliments.

  Yet comfort is the last thing Violet feels. Not only is she in danger of freezing to death, but other than Queenie, she is in a room full people much lighter-skinned than her. Of course she is used to this kind of thing by now, but somehow being in a lawyer’s office makes being outnumbered more unnerving.

  Every chair in the elaborate office is made of leather and whenever somebody moves, the leather makes a raspberry sound, as if the cows themselves are getting the last laugh. If Violet wasn’t so cold, she might find this funny. Unfortunately, as soon as she sat down, her bare legs adhered to the leather, anchored in place by a healthy crop of goose bumps, so she couldn’t make a raspberry sound if she tried.

  “Someone may have to pry me off of this sofa at the end of the meeting,” she whispers to Queenie, who assures her that she will help.

  Seconds later, Miss Temple’s prickly presence enters the room, as if rushing in late for the meeting. Her chaotic energy hovers around Spud and has a certain pitch to it, almost like a minor musical chord. But instead of a sound, it registers on a feeling level in Violet’s chest.

  Sometimes Violet wishes she could return this “gift,” as her grandmother often calls it. It’s not like she asked for it. One day it was just there—and without a return receipt.

  While waiting for the lawyer to begin, she remembers the day the weird vibrations started. She must have been six and Rose around ten. It was winter and they were playing in the attic because all of Rose’s old toys were stored there. An old white man with solid white hair appeared. Rose couldn’t see him, which was strange given Rose always saw her great-grandfather out by the oak tree. But maybe that was because a tiny piece of Rose’s finger was buried out under that tree.

  Violet looks at Rose now and she can see the girl Rose used to be. She wonders if Rose sees her the same way.

  The ghost in the attic that day scared Violet because he didn’t go about his business like most ghosts do. He kept asking her questions. Not every ghost is harmless, yet they do share some common traits. Most ghosts do the same things over and over again, like they are locked into a pattern. They walk the entire length of a hallway before disappearing. They rattle a few glasses, as if pouring themselves a drink. They move through the same rooms at the same times of day. Their routine doesn’t vary. But the guy in the attic didn’t have a pattern. To this day, she avoids going up there.

  What’s unusual with Miss Temple’s ghost is that she isn’t locked into staying at the house. She’s here this very minute. Violet scans the room, but her former employer refuses to be pinned down. She is everywhere and nowhere at once.

  Grandmother always told her that the dead don’t move on if they have something incomplete in their lives. If this incompleteness has nothing to do with you, you just wish them well and tell them to move on along. After Miss Temple’s death, Violet has tried to move her along, but she refuses to go anywhere.

  The lawyer stands behind the large mahogany desk and opens a leather encased folder. After taking out several sheets of paper he pauses. Is he trying to build the suspense? He clears his throat, but doesn’t appear the least bit nervous. If anything, he comes across as overconfident. It occurs to Violet that they are in his territory and have to play by his rules. It is a game he appears to relish.

  “As you all know, you are here at the request of Iris Temple, who specifically asked that the five of you be brought together as the will is read. It should be noted that the will was updated June 4th of this year.”

  “Isn’t that the day she had the stroke?” Edward asks.

  “Yes it is,” Bo Rivers says. “But I assure you, Edward, the updated will is perfectly legal. There’s no question that your mother was of sound mind when I saw her that afternoon.”

  The two men exchange a look that Violet has trouble reading. Are they friends or enemies?

  The lawyer puts on a pair of dark-framed reading glasses that look like they’d be sold at a specialty shop that carries lawyer accessories. He begins to read the document. Most of it is legal jargon. Violet glances at Queenie who winks at her and gives a slight roll of the eyes that Violet translates to mean, Don’t worry.

  While Edward studies her, Rose crosses her legs and leans back in the chair, as if determined to relax. Growing up, Violet would have given anything to have a brother or sister, even a half-sister, like Queenie had Miss Temple. But having a sibling like Edward would be worse than not having one at all.

  Spud straightens his bow tie again. Grief hangs around the corners of his eyes. He is the only one in the room who seems to remember why they are all here. Violet’s mind wanders. Now that Miss Temple is dead, she hopes Spud will meet someone new. He deserves to be happy.

  Even though Violet listens to every word, she understands only half.

  Rich people make things so complicated, she thinks, especially when it comes to their money.

  There is a trust for this, a trust for that. Trusts rest on top of trusts, housed in multiple banking institutions, along with assets of corporations and land contracts dating back two hundred years. In contrast, she and Jack have one checking account and a savings account opened for the girl’s college fund that they rob for household emergencies. They don’t even have credit cards, just a debit card. Life is a struggle sometimes, but the payoff is a simple life.

  As he reads the document, the lawyer’s voice falls into a steady rhythm like a washing machine on wash cycle. Already tired, Violet daydreams about the chores left to do at the Temple house, as well as the ones to do at home. The next time she looks at her watch, minutes have passed in what feels like seconds. Opening her eyes wider, she forces herself to pay attention. In the event that her position is terminated, she doesn’t want to be caught unaware.

  Miss Temple’s energy spins across the room and distracts Violet from what is being said. Is her former employer trying to tell her something?
Maybe she’s worked up over the latest secret, although it never occurred to Violet that ghosts might read the newspaper. But maybe they read the vibes of people who read the newspaper.

  I wish Grandmother were here, she thinks. Her skills are better than Violet’s when it comes to dead folks.

  Meanwhile, everyone else in the room appears oblivious as Miss Temple’s power grows. The vibration makes Violet’s head hurt, like all the air is being sucked out of the room. Then her shoulder begins to ache for the first time that day. Whatever has Miss Temple furious is also threatening to Violet. A blast of cold air confirms that whatever game Miss Temple is playing is about to begin.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Queenie

  Queenie glances around the office furnished with dark antiques and law books and then takes a quick stab at her hair, wishing she’d worn one of her hats. If for no other reason than to add some color to this dreary room, she tells herself. The space is enveloped in beige, deep browns and burgundy. The color of wealth.

  Queenie chews on a fingernail thinking about the latest secret. Is it someone in this room who is releasing them? No, she decides, this would make no sense. It has to be someone who wants to see the Temple’s status in the community fall. That first day that an ad appeared, she and Iris had gone straight to the bank. According to Iris, the book was right where it should be and hadn’t been moved.

  As Bo Rivers reads Iris’s will, Queenie grasps for understanding of the document. She has devoured enough courtroom dramas in books and on television that the lingo isn’t completely foreign to her. But still, it seems that some of the words are obscure on purpose, in order to sneak things by.

  Last fall, Bo Rivers came to the house to visit Iris with his father, Rutledge Rivers, who was so out of it at the time that Queenie wondered if dementia had set in. Queenie, of course, was never included in any of their meetings. As Edward Temple, III’s, bastard daughter, she was treated with indifference by Rutledge Rivers, who she heard died last winter. At the time, she had to resist saying, Good Riddance.