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

by Susan Gabriel

  After opening the gate, she steps onto the wide sidewalk, looking back at the house. She covers a smile, embarrassed by her good fortune. For years she’s wanted to away from this house—and her duties as a housekeeper and cook. Liberation was her goal. Yet even as a girl she loved this place. While Rose complained about its formality, Violet always thought it was like a castle in a fairy tale. A castle that would never, ever be hers.

  Further down the sidewalk, posters are taped to the tall wrought iron fence, their messages scrawled in dark markers. Iris Temple is a Traitor, says one. Keep Your Secrets to Yourself! says another. Who Do You Think You Are?! says a third. Miss Temple worked so hard to make the Temple name mean something. She would hate how ordinary folks are reacting to the scandal.

  A black Buick with darkened windows is parked at the end of the block. It has sat there for several days. She can make out the figure of a man inside. It reminds Violet of a scene from one of the crime novels Queenie loans her. A suspicious looking character lurks in the shadows, though you don’t find out who they are until the end of the book. The smoke from the stranger’s cigarette exits out of a one inch gap at the top of the window. The car is running, probably for the air conditioner. A soft beat of bass comes from the car radio. Rhythm and blues. She likes the music but doesn’t like the stranger.

  Violet shudders, adding fear to her list of mixed emotions. She lowers her eyes as she passes, and then walks through another gate to a stone pathway that leads to the side entrance. The kitchen entrance is typically the servant entrance, although nearly everybody uses it to come and go, except for Miss Temple. While the front entrance is formidable, the garden entrance is open and inviting.

  To rid herself of the fear, she focuses on her surroundings. The courtyard and garden always has a magical feel to Violet. She spends her breaks out here whenever she can. A large oak dominates the center of the garden, the ground nearby covered in a carpet of moss. It is the kind of spot that invites a picnic, or perhaps a nap, no matter what season or time of day. Not that she ever has time for such a thing. Except her grandmother used to make picnics for her and Rose to have under this tree when they were girls. Sometimes she would join them and tell them stories about their ancestors. Queenie was nearby. Always.

  What did she think about while she watched me? Violet wonders. She can’t imagine standing by and watching Tia or Leisha and not claiming them as her own. It would break her heart to do so. She pushes away the betrayal she feels. It is too big to face. Too dangerous.

  A wooden bench sits under an arbor next to an ivy covered wall of the house. Blooming flowers are everywhere. In the far corner a twisted crepe myrtle tree stands, its blossoms scattered on the ground, releasing the last moments of their scent. The breeze pushes the aroma of the blossoms in Violet’s direction. She drinks in the garden’s perfume, feeling intoxicated by the events of the day, as well as nauseous.

  Will she keep the gardener? But how will she afford him? She has heard of people who are house-rich and cash-poor. This is definitely her now. Although, she can’t believe she’s even thinking this way.

  A warm breeze rattles the leaves of the crepe myrtle tree. Even though it is only April, the evenings are already hot and will continue to bake them to the end of October.

  The squeak of the garden gate alarms her until she sees it is Spud. Now dressed in casual clothes, he is without his bow tie. Violet has never seen him without a tie. He carries an armload of posters he’s pulled from the fence.

  “What kind of people do this?” He rips the posters into pieces.

  “People with nothing better to do, I guess,” Violet answers. “Which reminds me, did you see that black Buick out there?”

  “I did. Who is that?” Spud asks.

  “No idea,” Violet says. “Queenie walked up to rap on the window yesterday and he drove off when he saw her coming. At least we assume it’s a ‘he.’ With those dark windows it’s hard to tell.”

  “Do you want me to talk to him?” Spud asks, sounding braver than he looks. Something about being able to see the tiny tuft of gray hair at the V of his polo shirt makes him seem overly exposed. It occurs to Violet that earlier today they were regular, hardworking people, relying on a weekly paycheck to get by, and now they are wealthy. All because of Miss Temple. A woman he obviously loved. And a woman Violet worked hard not to hate.

  “I think if you try to talk to him, he’ll just drive away again,” Violet says.

  “Have you called the police?”

  “We did,” Violet answers, “but since he isn’t breaking any laws they can’t do anything.”

  “Doesn’t it scare you?” Spud asks.

  “I guess I have a higher scare quotient since I deal with ghosts every day,” Violet says. With that she gets Spud to finally smile. “Besides, the Temple mansion is like a fortress with all the security systems on,” she adds, thinking she probably needs to learn how to operate them. Of course Queenie knows how, but she doesn’t want to talk to Queenie right now.

  Violet invites Spud inside and he takes his usual place at the kitchen table. “We both got quite a shock today,” he says.

  “I think I’m still reeling,” Violet says. It strikes her odd that an older white man would be such a good friend. A friend she can say almost anything to. A friend that if not for Miss Temple’s eccentricities, she might never have met. “Jack keeps calling to see when I’m coming home,” she adds, “but I can’t seem to leave.”

  “How do you think he’ll react?” Spud asks.

  “I honestly have no idea,” Violet says. “He’ll probably be in shock just like I am.” She pauses. “Is it alright with you if we don’t talk about that right now?”

  “Whatever you need is fine with me.” Spud starts to straighten his tie but his hand hangs there a moment when he realizes it isn’t there. An awkward grin crosses his face, as though going casual will take some getting used to.

  “I was in the middle of making turnovers,” she says.

  While he pours himself a cup of coffee, she turns her attention back to the biscuit dough she left on the countertop when Rose and Queenie left. She rolls out and cuts several pieces—shaped like the sail of paper boats—and folds the strips of dough over sliced peaches before placing them on a baking sheet.

  “You’re as good as Julia Child,” Spud says.

  Violet thanks him. She always gets compliments on her cooking. At church socials, people line up in front of whatever she brings so they don’t miss out. With Spud watching, she makes a dozen peach turnovers, one after another.

  “I bake when I don’t know what else to do,” Violet says.

  “Lucky for me,” Spud says.

  Violet smiles. Flour dots her arms and forehead and she wipes it off. Silence follows.

  “Here we are together, a butcher and a baker,” Spud says. “All we need is a candlestick maker.” He pauses like he’s waiting to see if she thinks he’s clever.

  Violet smiles her verdict. She used to read the nursery rhyme to Tia and Leisha. When Violet was young, Queenie read them to her. She claps the memory away, along with the flour. It seems she has to rethink her entire life.

  “Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Spud says, as if wanting to fill the silence until she’s ready to talk.

  Violet looks at him, reminded of how often she appreciates his kindness.

  “Well, let me think,” Violet says, glancing out the kitchen window that overlooks the garden. “In 1980, I was a runner-up in the Miss Georgia pageant.” Her face tingles with warmth. She hasn’t told anyone this fact in twenty years.

  Spud reacts like this news requires a standing ovation. “Well, it doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Spud says. “What did you do for talent?”

  “I sang Amazing Grace,” she says. “A blues version. It was my grandmother’s idea.”

  “I bet it was beautiful,” he says.

  “I don’t know about that, but for years people walked up to me on the street and told m
e how moved they were by my performance. One of the judges even confided that if I’d been a little lighter skinned I would have won the title.”

  “Will you sing it for me some day?” Spud asks.

  “I’ve kind of given up singing,” she says, “but maybe someday.” She pauses, wondering why she gave up singing. Did she just get so busy working she didn’t have time anymore?

  The smell of turnovers calls her back to the oven where she takes them out and places them on a cooling rack, their perfectly browned crusts glisten with a light sugar glaze. Despite her recent windfall, she still wants to open her Tea Shop and Bakery. She wants to have something to pass along to her girls. Of course, a mansion might be a nice thing, too.

  With a peach turnover on a plate for each of them, she adds a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Then she refills Spud’s coffee and makes a cup of tea for herself. Although Spud and Violet have sat together many times, this moment feels different.

  Spud takes a bite of turnover and his eyes close. This pleases her. Her own turnover sits untouched. Vanilla ice cream forms a moat around the pastry to create an island of sweetness.

  “I can’t believe dear Iris left me real estate,” Spud says. “I feel like I won the lottery.”

  “Me, too,” Violet says. “But I can’t help wondering if there’s been some huge mistake.”

  “It wouldn’t be like Iris to make mistakes,” Spud says.

  “But she gave you up,” Violet says.

  Spud pauses, as though his peach turnover is trapped behind the lump in his throat. He swallows and she can hear his gulp. “I think that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Spud says.

  Violet rests a hand on Spud’s arm. “It’s the truth,” she says, watching him blush.

  “Have you talked to Queenie yet?” he asks, like there’s truth to be found there, too.

  “We’re supposed to talk later tonight,” Violet says. “I don’t know whether I’m angry or sad or relieved. Rose seems to think that Queenie had to keep it all a secret so I wouldn’t lose my job and she could still live here and be close to me. It makes sense, in a way. But, honestly, I don’t know what to think.”

  “That’s why it’s important to talk about it,” Spud says.

  As if summoned, the door opens and Queenie walks into the kitchen. “Sorry for the intrusion,” she says.

  Violet pretends interest in the soggy turnover.

  “Would you like some coffee and dessert?” Spud says to Queenie. “Violet has outdone herself with the peach turnovers.”

  Queenie thanks Spud and serves herself. The tension in the room feels like a tightrope stretched between two Savannah mansions. When Queenie takes a seat at the kitchen table, Violet has to resist leaving the room. Her muteness accompanies the tension.

  “Shall I leave you two alone?” Spud asks.

  “No!” Violet and Queenie answer in unison. Their awkward laughter waits a beat before filling the room. The tightrope quickly relaxes.

  The last six hours have felt like a roller coaster ride at Six Flags. Violet’s emotions have ranged from intense anger to confusion, with moments of compassion thrown in. On the one hand, she wants to hear what Queenie has to say. On the other hand, she’d prefer never to speak to her again.

  “Rose will get to Denver around ten tonight,” Queenie says. “Max is driving from Cheyenne to pick her up.”

  Is she hoping the small talk will rescue her from the big talk we need to have? Violet wonders.

  “I guess they’ll have a lot of talk about,” Violet says. Like we do, she wants to add. Which one of them will have the courage to speak first? Meanwhile, she’s tired. Her day started early and now it’s eight o’clock. The hurt she feels lies just underneath her skin like a splinter that refuses to work its way out on its own. She wants to scream: How could you lie to me all these years?

  “I’m so sorry I lied to you,” Queenie says, as if she’s read Violet’s thoughts. They have this kind of connection sometimes. A connection where they know what the other is thinking. Now Violet knows why. In the womb, she nestled just inches from Queenie’s heart. With this thought, her breath catches in her throat. She refuses to cry. She’s cried enough for one day.

  Violet stands and puts her uneaten turnover into the kitchen sink. She wants to go home, but stands frozen.

  “Just listen to what she has to say,” Spud tells Violet, his voice soft.

  Despite his awkwardness, she is glad Spud is here. “I’m willing to listen for a little while,” Violet says to Queenie. She leans against the kitchen counter to anchor herself in place. “But if I say ‘stop,’ I need you to stop.”

  “Absolutely,” Queenie says. But then she hesitates, as if her courage flounders.

  Violet and Spud exchange a look. His eyes open wider, as if to remind her to stay open to what Queenie has to say.

  “At first, I thought that if the Temples knew, they might try to take you away from me,” Queenie begins. “Then later I thought they might say I couldn’t live here anymore.” She looks into Violet’s eyes, who turns away. It is too much to deal with her pain, as well as Queenie’s. “Perhaps it’s not a good enough reason to live with a lie all these years,” Queenie continues, “but it’s all I knew to do. To complicate things, Oscar made me swear that I would never tell. He was convinced that nothing good could come of it. But it seems that nothing good has come from keeping the secret, either.”

  A long pause follows. Spud taps his coffee cup, as if to remind Violet to speak. But she hasn’t a clue what to say. Go to hell? Get out of my house? I forgive you?

  Queenie bows her head. If she’s waiting to be forgiven, she’s going to have to wait longer. Violet isn’t the type to give angry outbursts, but sometimes she wishes she were.

  “I’ve been afraid that you would hate me, not that anyone could blame you,” Queenie begins again.

  “I don’t hate you,” Violet says, her voice raised. She doesn’t want to let Queenie off this easy, but she is telling the truth. Violet doesn’t hate Queenie. Maybe if she did, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

  Queenie’s relief comes out in a rush of words. “You don’t know how good that is to hear.”

  “Well, I’m glad one of us feels good,” Violet says, her voice elevated again. “How could you lie to me every day for the last forty years?” Her voice breaks with emotion.

  As Queenie takes a step closer, Violet holds out her arm to stop her. Queenie lowers her eyes. “I’ve done unforgivable things,” she says, her voice contrite.

  Violet can’t believe how messy life gets sometimes, even when people mean well. “I need some time to get used to this.” She steps back like even a few inches might help create the time. “What would you do, Queenie? What would you do if you thought your mother had died when you were a little girl, and now you’re told that your real mother has been sitting right across from you all these years?”

  “I honestly have no idea.” Queenie stands and puts a light hand on Violet’s shoulder that Violet shrugs away. “Please don’t touch me. Don’t speak to me and stay out of my sight,” Violet says. She looks straight into Queenie’s eyes that fill with tears. Perhaps she is the type for angry outbursts after all.

  Queenie’s lips tighten, as if trying to hold back the sobbing. She leaves the room to give Violet what she wants. Now it is Violet’s tears that begin again.

  After a good cry, Violet goes home to their small apartment. She’s put off telling her family as long as she can. Tia and Leisha are watching television in the living room as Jack walks out of their bedroom.

  “I was getting worried about you,” Jack says. “How was the meeting with the lawyer?”

  She turns away from his kiss. “I need to call a family meeting,” she says, loud enough for the girls to hear her in the living room. Both girls moan. Family meetings usually mean there’s a problem and something needs to change.

  Reluctant, the girls turn off the television and sit at the table. Jack does, too. All three
look worried that they’ve done something wrong, but she is too tired to reassure them.

  “Something really big happened today,” she begins. “Something really, really big.” In the moments that follow, she tells them about the meeting at the lawyer’s office and what she learned while she was there. When she finishes, all eyes stay on her. She can’t remember the last time she had her family’s full attention.

  “Queenie is my grandmother now?” Leisha asks. “How come we’re just now finding out?”

  “I think Queenie was afraid I might lose my job if Miss Temple knew.” Violet’s voice trails off. She is so tired of thinking about all this.

  “Well, I don’t think people should lie,” Leisha says.

  At sixteen, Leisha makes all A’s and is one of the youth leaders at their church.

  “I don’t think she felt that she had a choice,” Violet says.

  She surprises herself with her willingness to defend Queenie. It helps that they’ve been so close over the years. But isn’t this what makes the betrayal hurt even more? Violet wonders again how they could be so close and Queenie never tell her the truth.

  “I love Aunt Queenie,” Tia says. “She’s funny and cool.”

  Tia is fourteen and looks just like her father. Tall and lean, she plays center for the girl’s basketball team in high school. Unlike her outgoing sister, she is shy.

  “I love Queenie, too,” Violet says.

  “So are we going to live there?” Tia asks. Tia and Leisha share one of the bedrooms in their two bedroom apartment.

  “Yes, I suppose we will,” Violet says, “if your father agrees.”

  She has thought about this possibility all afternoon. She can imagine the Temple house full of teenagers and life, where homework is done on the huge dining room table, enough room for both girls to have at least six friends over.

  “All of this will be up for discussion,” Jack says. “Let’s not go counting chickens,” he adds.

  “Your dad’s right,” Violet says. “None of this is a done deal.”