Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  I didn’t know about that, but I knew one thing. No matter who that man married, no matter what he said, he still loved Shelby and always would. I want to call them star-crossed, but they only crossed themselves. Whenever I looked into that man’s eyes, I saw a torment that wrenched at my heart, and all I could do was look away.

  Chapter 38

  LOUIE FACES THE MUSIC

  Now that Joie was out of the ICU, Faye began to decorate the private room. Vases of carnations and roses were lined up in the windowsill. Cards from Joie’s third-grade class were taped to the wall. Humming to herself, Faye plugged in a blue boom box and slipped in a Coldplay CD. Then she bustled around Joie’s bed, straightening sheets and rearranging the IV tubing, her bracelets jangling. Even though Joie was sleeping, Faye talked nonstop about diet, skin care, nail polish, and the season’s hottest color. In excruciating detail, she recited details of Billy’s day, along with a recap of soap operas that Joie had slept through.

  “There, that’s better,” she said, folding Joie’s blue Ralph Lauren comforter at the foot of the bed. Faye opened her gigantic pocketbook and pulled out eight-by-ten photographs of Joie in all of her precomatose glory—dimples, turned-up nose, lush blond hair spilling over her shoulders. Those pictures were misleading, making her seem tall and independent, not a petite, babified girl who’d never been allowed to drive a car. Now that I’d had a chance to see Faye in action, I realized that her pampering had all but crippled her daughter.

  When Faye wasn’t orchestrating Joie’s breakfast or decorating her bedside, she called the police for updates. After I’d gotten over the shock of seeing Renata’s pearls, I knew that she wasn’t capable of hurting Joie and I regretted all that I’d said. Faye, however, wouldn’t discuss it. “Joie is all I have,” she told me. “She’s my best friend and daughter rolled into one.” Her unshakable belief that Renata had injured Joie seemed ludicrous, and I resented it, but I wasn’t sure how to handle my rising distaste for Faye. I loved Joie, but there was no possibility of limiting my exposure to her mother.

  Mother and daughter were a package deal.

  From the bed, Joie was stirring. She looked like a sixteen-year-old, and I felt obscurely guilty for loving her. Her neurosurgeon, Austin Brewington, had assumed that she was my daughter. Austin had a long, glossy blond ponytail and a scruffy beard. He wore a white lab coat over ripped blue jeans. Every other word out of Faye’s mouth was, “Austin said” or “Austin thinks.” She gave him tiny boxes of Whitman Samplers and beribboned packages of Mayfield’s Crab Boil.

  “Water,” said Joie. She had great difficulty moving her left hand, and not just because an IV was affixed to it.

  I tipped the pitcher over a plastic cup, then held it to her lips. She drank greedily, her throat making high-pitched squeaks. She’d been off the ventilator for sixteen hours; they’d taken off the bulky bandage over her nose, replacing it with a butterfly strip. She pushed away the cup, then I helped her lie down. Faye sprang over to the bed with a pink makeup bag and pulled out a tube of lipstick.

  “Now, pucker up.” She pursed her own lips. “Let’s get ready for your cute doctor.”

  “Don’t use the navy blue mascara.” Joie pushed Faye’s hand away. “Use the waterproof black.”

  While they discussed mascara and blush, they seemed to forget that I was sitting in the chair. I’d barely left her side since the engagement party.

  “Have you remembered anything?” Faye held her breath as she painted her daughter’s eyelashes. “Do you know who hit you? Was it Louie’s daughter?”

  “Louie?” Joie blinked.

  “Why, your fiancé, of course.” Faye waved at me.

  “Oh,” said Joie. When she spoke, the left side of her mouth didn’t move. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d had a stroke.

  “Don’t press her,” I told Faye. “It’ll come back to her.”

  Faye ignored me. “Sweetie, try to remember who hit you. Think. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Joie licked her lips. Then she turned her face toward her mother. “I was at some party,” she said in a slurry voice. “Drinking champagne. Eating strawberries. They were real juicy.”

  “Yes,” said Faye, “but who attacked you?”

  “Nobody. I was sitting in the kitchen. Licking chocolate from my fingers. I started for the powder room. But I was drunk. I must’ve opened the garage door. Next thing I knew, I was flying down the stairs. That’s all I remember.”

  “What about Renata, Louie’s daughter? She says you grabbed her pearl necklace and broke it.”

  “Oh, yeah. That happened earlier. I stumbled down a few steps. But I didn’t get hurt. Well, I banged up my knee.”

  “She—she didn’t push you?”

  “No. I jumped her. From behind, I think. Don’t ask why. Because I can’t remember.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. And, Mama?”

  “What, my precious?”

  “Can I have some strawberries? Or a Hershey’s bar? I’m starving.”

  “Coming right up,” said Faye, grabbing her pocketbook.

  “She can’t have solid food yet,” I said. “Not till her IV comes out.”

  “If my baby wants chocolate, then she’s getting it,” said Faye.

  The door opened, and Austin Brewington swept into the room, his boat shoes squeaking on the tile. Joie struggled to sit up. Even with the little shaved patches on her head, she glowed with a dewy luminosity.

  “Hey, Joie,” said Austin, and with a nod in my direction, he plopped down on her bed.

  “Morning, Austin,” she said. Morning sun spilled through the window, falling in patterns across the bed. She looked up at him with those long lashes, and one side of her mouth curved into a smile. He smiled back, then touched her droopy lips.

  “You’re much better,” he said. “Don’t you think so?”

  She nodded. Something fell inside my chest, and right then, I knew that she was going to fall in love with him. In a way, I was relieved. Every woman I’d loved had a crazy, overbearing mother. It wasn’t a coincidence; it was a pattern. I needed to stop falling in love and figure out why I attracted these types. Maybe I needed to look at my own mother, and at my daughter, to understand why all my romances fell apart. Hell, it was worth a try.

  Chapter 39

  IN THE BIRDCAGE WITH ISABELLA AND FERG

  Under normal conditions, I would never travel to coastal Alabama. To be precise, I had my doubts that Point Clear even existed. However, when the engagement ring story appeared, showing a picture of my bedraggled sweetheart at the Atlanta airport, I booked the next flight out of Dublin.

  I had no idea where her grandmother lived, but I knew her name. Honora made me think of rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, with its narrow balconies looking down on the posh boutiques of flowery Parisian streets. Renata had said the town was barely a town at all, a mere blip on the map.

  Twenty-four hours later, I was standing in a lush, semitropical resort town, populated by southern bluebloods and a flock of brown pelicans. I checked into the Grand Hotel, a Deep South version of the Grande-HÔtel du Cap-Ferrat, but instead of overlooking the Mediterranean, this hotel faced a dark, dirty, brooding bay. I selected several brochures from the rack, then followed the bellman into the lift. He was middle-aged, with faded blue eyes, and he wore a red suit and a matching hat, resembling an organ grinder’s monkey. “Is this your first visit to Point Clear?” he asked.

  “Sorry?” It took me a moment to understand the gentleman. I thought he’d said, “Pon’t Claire.”

  “I said, is this your first visit to Point Clear?”

  “Yes, yes, it is,” I said.

  “You sure do got a funny accent,” said the man. “What are you, Italian?”

  “Hardly,” I said, repressing a smile.

  “You come here to play golf?”

  “No.”

  “Sail?”

  “Afraid not. You wouldn’t possibly know a woman named
Honora DeChavannes, would you?”

  “Nope,” said the bellman.

  I crushed several American dollars into the man’s stubby hands, then fled into my room.

  After I unpacked and changed into a polo shirt, I wandered down to the Birdcage Lounge and ordered a gin and tonic. The bartender spoke with a Brooklyn accent and wasn’t familiar with anyone named DeChavannes, but he pointed to a pinch-faced older woman with green eyes, who was sitting alone at a table. “Ask Isabella McGeehee,” he said. “She knows everybody.”

  I turned. The woman looked to be in her late seventies, prosperous and demure, wearing a pink linen suit and a pearl necklace. When I approached her table and introduced myself, she gestured at an empty chair. “Sit down, honey. Are you from England?”

  “Scotland, actually,” I said.

  “You look familiar.” She narrowed those green eyes, then leaned forward, smelling of tobacco, vodka, and gardenias. “How long have you been in town?”

  “I just arrived.”

  “Ever been here before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I guess I don’t know you, after all.” She smiled. “Although I used to be a famous actress, but now I’m just a private citizen. My best friend’s granddaughter has a Scottish boyfriend. He’s a director, and he looks a little like you. It’s been in all the gossip magazines.”

  “Has it?” I said.

  “It’s the juiciest story. The boyfriend has been on the cover of every gossip magazine. He got caught with some foreign-looking actress. I don’t recall the name. Anyway, Renata—that’s Honora’s granddaughter—has come home to lick her wounds.”

  “Sorry, did you say your best friend’s name is Honora?”

  “Yes. Why?” The woman smiled, revealing extraordinarily straight teeth, whether from orthodontia or genetics, I didn’t know. My own teeth were crooked, rather like roof shingles blown astray after a storm.

  “Actually, I need to get in touch with her.” I stared down into my gin and tonic.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, and tilted back her head, blowing a smoke ring.

  “Ferg Lauderdale.”

  “No!” She slapped the table, jostling my drink. “Not Renata’s Ferg!”

  “Well, I was.”

  “Tell me, did you seduce that actress?”

  “No, no.” I waved my hand. “I’ve been unable to reach my girlfriend to explain. She won’t answer the phone. I couldn’t reach her father, and I didn’t know how to find her grandmother—”

  “Honora’s phone number is unlisted,” she cut in.

  “A colleague from Caliban Films called and said Renata’s picture was in the Globe. Apparently it was taken in the Atlanta airport. I didn’t think she was headed to Ireland, so I took a chance and decided to fly here.”

  “You picked right.” The woman winked. “Renata is here.”

  “Here?” I glanced over my shoulder.

  “Not in this bar. I’ll draw you a map.” She fumbled in her purse, pulling out a pen. She reached for her napkin and started drawing lines and X’s. “Okay, here’s how you get to Chateau DeChavannes.”

  As I drove the Hertz Roadster down a blacktop road, I glimpsed hidden estates, grandes maisons through pines and Spanish oaks. I rolled down my window and smelled sour, brackish water mixed in with sun-baked pine needles. In the distance I saw a wrought-iron gate set into tall stucco pillars. The gates stood open, and they were beautifully embellished with what appeared to be a coat of arms. A closer look revealed hairless donkeys, which seemed odd and out of place next to the elaborate grillwork. On the left pillar, “Chateau DeChavannes” was carved into a stone plaque.

  I turned down the curved drive, past tall hedges where statues were set into niches, reminiscent of the sunny estates on the CÔte d’Azur. On my right, I saw an allée with a winding crushed gravel path that led to the water. Then I saw the house. The architecture was definitely French, a three-story beige stucco with green shutters and a tiled mansard roof. Casement windows stood open, lace curtains stirring in the breeze. The front walls were covered in red climbing roses. Balconies with ornate iron railings poked out here and there, each one embellished with a naked donkey.

  Turning into a circle drive, I parked in the shade, then started up the long flagstone path, through a grove of Spanish oaks and oleanders. I stepped past an ornate three-tiered fountain, and farther down, I paused beside a koi pond, admiring a statue of Circe tilting her bowl, the magical elixir spilling over the lily pads. I passed through a rose-covered trellis, where the air was so fragrant, I felt drugged as I climbed the porch steps, pausing to grip the limestone balustrade. When the dizziness passed, I lifted my arm and rang the bell.

  A square-built, green-eyed woman opened the door, her pale yellow housedress ruffling around her legs. She was quite old, but her small face was unwrinkled, with freckles scattered over her nose. In the background, I heard shrill barking.

  “Isabella just called. You must be Ferg.” She stood on her toes and kissed my cheek. “I’ll tell Honora you’re here.”

  Without bothering to introduce herself, she disappeared around a corner. But I knew she had to be Gladys Boudreaux. I clasped my hands behind my back. Sunlight fell in diamond patterns on the parquet de Versailles floor. A dramatic iron staircase curved up three stories, toward a domed ceiling painted with clouds and floating cherubs. It reminded me of my family’s home in Scotland.

  The green-eyed woman reappeared and led me down a hall, which culminated in a large kitchen, where a pot of something delicious bubbled on the stove. A tall, gray-haired woman in a tweed suit stood beside the counter, mixing champagne and orange juice.

  “Hello, Mr. Lauderdale,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Honora, Renata’s grandmother. She’s out on the beach. Would you like a mimosa?”

  “Er—” A loud bark startled me, and I looked down. A Yorkshire terrier peered from under a bar stool, showing its teeth.

  “Where’s your manners, Zapper?” Honora asked the dog. He sat down and put his head on his paws, but continued to eye me with considerable suspicion. Honora handed me a crystal flute. The fizz tickled my nose. I have an extremely long nose; it always ends up in a wineglass, as if dredging for plankton.

  “I’m so pleased you’re here,” she said, sipping her mimosa. “Thank goodness Isabella recognized you.”

  “Yes, it was quite fortunate.” Through the French doors, I saw a terrace and an oddly shaped swimming pool. Farther out, a wooden walkway led to a pier with a boathouse at the end. An extraordinary-looking woman stood at the end. She was barefoot and wore a black floppy hat and a gauzy white dress. She turned and my pulse ticked in my neck.

  Behind me, Honora DeChavannes ran her finger over the rim, making the crystal squeak. “I’m trying to place your accent. Renata told me you’re Scottish, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were from London.”

  “Actually, I was born in Scotland,” I said, then paused, trying to decide how much, and how little, to divulge.

  “Whereabouts?” She lifted one eyebrow.

  “The Borders,” I said, praying this wasn’t the beginning of an ancestral inquisition, and that she was merely performing the southern tradition of “placing me.” Renata’s mother had done this long ago. Interpol couldn’t have done a more thorough job. However, if Honora had any Scottish connections at all, and I suspected that she did, a few well-placed calls would reveal my lineage—but that was all.

  “That explains your accent.” She smiled. “But how did you end up in London?”

  “Well, after Eton, I attended King’s College,” I said. “My family has a flat in Knightsbridge. So, after university, my relocation to London was inevitable.”

  It wasn’t a lie, even though I’d carefully omitted certain details, like my family’s estate in Lauder, twenty kilometers south of Edinburgh. The Lauderdales and Maitlands had owned Thurstelane since the late 1300s. I hadn’t wanted it; I’d unceremoniously removed the silver spoon from
my mouth, preferring to make my own way. My father had threatened to disinherit me, but my mum had talked him out of it. Americans loved historical gossip, but I didn’t know how much Renata had already told her grandmother. Thurstelane’s most famous overnight guest was Bonnie Prince Charlie, who was, incidentally, related to us by blood; my other distinguished forebear, William Maitland, had faithfully served as Mary Queen of Scots’s secretary of state. He had married into the Thurstelane fortune, but after Mary’s half brother had seized the crown, Maitland poisoned himself in Edinburgh Castle. A charming legacy, wouldn’t you say?

  We owed Maitland our ugly teal-blue tartan, along with our clan name (a rarity in the Borders) and certain renovations to Thurstelane, such as the knot gardens and the tiered, embellished wedding-cake ceilings. The latter were something of an architectural peculiarity and must have depleted Scotland’s coffers. In any event, these unusual features lured tourists by the thousands. I’d spent my childhood dodging guides and obnoxious travelers, and in later years, I was pressed into service in our cellar tearoom. My father, viscount of Lauder (Tr. Hon. the Earl of Lauderdale; Chief of Clan Lauderdale, etc.), had added the building in the early 1970s, along with an adjacent gift shop, where my mother and sisters sold tea towels and mugs, pencils, and whatnots, all printed with either a picture of Thurstelane, the family crest, tartan, or motto: “Consilio Et Animis.” Naturally, I never explained what it meant (“By wisdom and courage,” if you care; I never did). I possessed neither virtue.

  Honora picked up the mimosa pitcher. “I know you’re eager to see Renata, but first let me refresh your drink, and then I’ll show you around the house. It’s on the historical register, and it served as a hospital during the Civil War—it’s practically new, compared to castles in the UK. But I don’t have to tell you.” She tipped the pitcher over my glass, then led me through the high-ceilinged rooms, the little terrier trotting behind us, shooting malicious glances.