Replacing Gentry

by Julie N. Ford

  “I’m sorry, Marlie, we’re goin’ on and on ’bout politics and we didn’t even bother to ask you ’bout your affiliation,” Sadie said, holding a hand to her fuchsia-colored lips. “How rude of us.”

  Caitlin agreed. “That’s right, we shouldn’t assume that just because you’re married to a Cannon that you’re a conservative.”

  All eyes, including Cooper’s, turned a vigilant stare on me. I forced a weak smile as my armpits started to moisten. I didn’t have an affiliation at the moment but the blue blood coursing through my veins advised me not to answer—not with my true feelings at least.

  “I, um . . .” I shook my head, my gaze willing the waiter now making his way to our table with a large platter, to pick up the pace. Feigning a surprised look, I pointed toward our approaching lunch. “Looks like our food has arrived and none too soon. I’m starved,” I said with gusto and a pat to my tummy.

  As I’d hoped, the arrival of our salads saved me. The conversation ebbed while everyone quietly watched the waiter place plates heaped with dark greens and slices of pink beef crisped to perfection down in front of us.

  When the waiter moved away, Sadie held a hand out to Cooper and one to Caitlin. “Shall we pray?” Her eyes fell shut. The other women gripped her outstretched palms. I’d grown up praying over meals at home, but never had I done so in public.

  Cooper took my left hand without asking then nodded toward Caitlin’s with an instant look.

  “Oh,” I said under my breath, reaching over to take Caitlin’s hand.

  With our small circle complete, Sadie began. “Oh Lord which art in heaven,” she called out with heightened emotion, her body rocking, head circling from side to side as she thanked a higher power for our meal with dramatic fervor. I’d never seen such an enthusiastic public display of religious conviction. I had to admire her passion.

  After the prayer, the talk over carefully speared bites of salad circled around the Junior League’s summer fundraiser—buying athletic shoes for underprivileged athletes.

  “Meet for Feet,” they were calling it. The event would kick-off with a 5k run and end with a fancy ball. Right now they were in the process of gathering used athletic shoes that they would then spray paint gold to use as centerpieces.

  Maybe we should be more concerned with why a society as wealthy as ours has so many underprivileged, I wanted to say, but then I couldn’t come up with a fun theme for a charity ball that advocated social equality. Plus, I was concentrating so hard on making sure I was using my utensils properly that I hardly had a chance to formulate my words, much less put a sweet spin on them. So focused, in fact, was I on suitably consuming my lunch that I didn’t notice the presence of a man sashaying over to our table.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” he said with a silky Southern drawl.

  I raised my eyes just enough to see Sadie’s necklaces tinkle together as she shook her hair back from her shoulders. “Hey there, Johnny,” she said, gazing up at him through her sweeping eyelashes.

  Wearing a dress shirt and suit pants with the knot of his purple-striped tie loosened, he looked professionally disheveled. I didn’t have to lift my gaze all the way to Johnny’s to know he was staring directly at me. It was like I could feel his eyes touching my skin. I hadn’t seen him since the wedding but had, more often than I care to admit, found myself reliving our conversation, trying to make sense of what had transpired between us.

  Why were my palms suddenly sweating? Digging my teeth into my bottom lip to steady my tenuous response to his presence, I finally raised my gaze to his. Vibrant green and sparkling with flecks of yellow, his eyes took hold of mine.

  “What brings so many gorgeous women together on this fine, unseasonable warm afternoon?” he said, exhuming an absurd amount of charm. His focus held mine just shy of long enough to call attention, before he slid his regard around the table, sharing a speck of his interest with the other ladies.

  Caitlin spoke next. “Our monthly lunch where we catch up on all the gossip,” she said with a sweet smile.

  Johnny gave her an affirming nod. “And it’s nice of y’all to include the new Mrs. Daniel Evans-Cannon.” His gaze swooped down upon me again. “I bet she’s just dying to be privy to the scandalous details of the lives of Nashville’s wealthy and influential.”

  Something irritating crawled under my skin. “It’s Marlie Cannon, if you don’t mind. I’m not hyphenating,” I corrected. I would have sugarcoated my words but his swarthy demeanor was suddenly indescribably maddening.

  “You should reconsider,” he said. “It will be easier to revert back to your maiden name if you do.” His devious eyes glinted about my lunch companions. “But then I don’t imagine Marlie’s the type to give up. She’s a fighter, or maybe persistent is a better word.”

  He taunted me with eyes that saw right through me. “Curiosity and tenacity make dangerous bedfellows, wouldn’t you agree? And it doesn’t hurt that once you’ve tasted pate, Cheese Whiz will never be the same again. Isn’t that right, ladies?”

  The table went silent, as did my breath. Was he really implying that my marriage to Daniel might not last? And comparing my marriage to cheese, nonetheless? The quiet held an uncomfortable beat before Sadie reached up and grabbed hold of his shirtsleeve.

  “Oh, Johnny, you’re such a kidder.” Sadie snorted out a laugh. “Don’t you give Miss Marlie a hard time. She doesn’t know you like we do.” She made a shooing motion. “Go on now, y’all need to get on outta here so we can get back to our business.”

  Johnny held his hands up as if surrendering. “Far be it for me to stand in the way of gossip,” he said with a step back. “Enjoy your lunch, ladies.” He tipped an imaginary hat to me. “Marlie.” His eyes stayed on me, mocking, flirting, I couldn’t be sure which, until he spun around and moseyed for the exit.

  Caitlin leaned around Sadie to watch him go. I caught myself doing the same—he had the most pleasing swagger—before mentally slapping myself and averting my eyes back to my plate.

  “Mmm, I would like to spend some time rowing in his canoe,” Caitlin hummed.

  “Yeah,” Sadie agreed. “But I bet that’s one crowded canoe.”

  “Probably.” Caitlin licked her lips. “But it’d be worth it, don’t you think?”

  Sadie turned her palms up with a shrug. “Why speculate?” she said with a wink to Cooper. “Cooper’s rowed him a time or two. Just ask her.”

  I felt my eyes bug out as I turned to my sister-in-law. Cooper’s narrowed gaze flickered in Sadie’s direction a split second before her perfect lips formed an O.

  “I have not,” she gasped.

  “Liar,” Sadie shot back, slapping the table. “You have too!” She pointed a finger, heavy with a golden butterfly, at Cooper. “Junior year in college . . . he was a very yummy, and conveniently impressionable, freshman. Ringin’ any bells?”

  Cooper turned her eyes to the ceiling now as if the revelation was old news. “That was a long time ago and doesn’t count.” She waved the idea away like a bad smell. “Besides, y’all know that I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “You’re no fun.” Sadie wrinkled her nose at Cooper before turning to me. “What do you think, Marlie? You think it’d be worth it.”

  I felt my cheeks flash with heat. “Who me? I . . .” Even though he’d threatened me, and appeared to have had a little fun at my expense just now, I’d be lying if I said the thought of kissing Johnny hadn’t entered my mind a time or two.

  “Leave the poor thing alone.” Caitlin came to my rescue. “She’s married to a sweet little piece of man-candy, she ain’t thinkin’ ’bout anybody but Daniel,” she said more like a question than a statement.

  Sadie got a faraway look in her eye. “Mmm, Daniel,” she said, sucking in her bottom lip. “All gentlemanly and mysterious. Now there’s a man I could have dirty dreams about.”

  Caitlin nodded in silent agreement while Cooper looked mildly disturbed.

  “But I wonder, is he?” Sadie asked, a de
praved look in her eye.

  The focus turned to me again in anticipation of my response.

  “Is he what?” I said with not the slightest idea what she was asking.

  Sadie leaned forward, Cooper and Caitlin doing the same, and lowered her voice. “Gentlemanly, you know, when y’all are . . .” she rolled her lips together and raised her penciled-in brows.

  The blush returned to my face. “Oh, well, I don’t think I’ll answer that one,” I said, choking on my words. “You’ll just have to use your imaginations.” Which appear to be quite vivid, I added in my head.

  “Just like Gentry,” Sadie said as she sat back and crossed her arms. “They were married, what? Fourteen years and we could never get one single, itty bitty, intimate detail out of her either.” She sounded truly disappointed.

  “What has it been now, sixteen years since their weddin’?” Caitlin asked reverently. “Has it really been that long?”

  “No, it’s been seventeen,” Cooper said in solemn voice. “Seventeen years . . . today.” Her eyes filtered to me and then away again.

  Cooper’s revelation sent a sting back to the scratch on my baby toe. Clippers. Flowers. Daniel’s car. A cemetery. All of it vacillated through my mind like pieces of a puzzle I might easily fit together if I’d just turn the jagged edges in the right direction. The chitchat around the table resumed, and then faded as the pieces fell into place.

  Fitting the previously isolated incidents together formed only one conclusion, and yet, like trying to interpret Sanskrit, didn’t make sense.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Every nerve in my body was on high alert. Each sound, every car that passed, even the sun defused by my sunglasses raced through my senses like a ten-volt electric shock. There was no need for me to be on edge. Cemeteries were public places, so no one would question my presence. Plus, there was no chance Daniel would be there. He was long overdue to be at the Capitol by now. Still, my eyes darted between all three mirrors as if, at any moment, someone was going to pop out of nowhere and yell, “Boo!”

  My gaze drifted once more to the rearview mirror. The blue, late-model Jeep Cherokee had been following me since I’d left the city. It was now a few cars back on the exit ramp. Up ahead, the light turned yellow. Hitting the gas, I sped through, leaving the jeep stopped at the light.

  “Pull it together, Marlie.” I cranked the wheel hard to the right, onto the gravel drive where Daniel had disappeared hours earlier. “No big deal. Just a walk amongst the dead. Your new obsession, according to Cooper, for which you may indeed, need to consider counseling.”

  Through the trees, the road led to a seventies-styled home where the gravel split, circling around each side. Behind the house, rolling grassy acres dotted with oak trees and clustered with neatly rowed memorials sprawled in all directions. I took the road to the right. Although I’d once heard that one should go left at a T in the road, the right always seemed to pull at me.

  Slabs of granite markers piled on pallets and protected by plastic sat at this side of the house. I rolled along the road with my foot lightly touching the accelerator, giving me plenty of time to scan over the grave markers, most of which lay flat against the grass. From the gravel path it was difficult to see them; I would need to park and go at it on foot. But for now, I thought it best to circle around and feel out the situation.

  Once I’d made it around to the opposite side, I spotted an area off to the right where temporary aluminum markers stuck up from recently unearthed grass. I’d come to the newest memorials—the end of the road. Turning off the main path onto one that led deeper into the grave sites, I parked under a tree and got out.

  The air stirred by the warm breeze was moist against my face and smelled of freshly cut grass. The distant buzz of cicadas from the woods around the clearing rose and fell, like a wave rolling over the treetops.

  Tenting my hand over my eyes, I squinted against the afternoon sun, noticing for the first time that I wasn’t alone. Across the cemetery, I saw the very same Cherokee that had been behind me on the highway.

  It pulled to a stop and the driver hopped out, his black cowboy boots hitting the gravel with a crunch. He glanced in my direction and then turned, looping around to the other side of his SUV. I watched as he removed his orange Tennessee baseball cap and held it to his chest. My heart reached out to him with a pang of sympathy. I returned to my search and a few minutes later, caught a glimpse of what I’d hoped I wouldn’t find. Sliding my sunglasses down my nose, I focused until I was sure. Hating the fact that my hunches usually turned out to be right, I carefully skirted around grave markers, careful not to step where some soul was resting, over to the next plot of graves.

  Once I made it to my destination, I positioned myself facing the plaque. The spiked heels of my sandals sunk into the deep earth. Covering the inscription lay a bouquet of freshly cut, blue hydrangeas, the stems tied together with a white satin ribbon. Confusion, anger, sadness, rose and fell with the song of the cicada until confusion emerged victorious. Squatting down, I lifted the flowers and moved them to the side so I could read the inscription. Unidentified Woman 1 was all it said.

  I laid my palm flat against the cool stone. “Unidentified woman number one,” I read. Gentry’s beloved flowers had been brought here, in secret, by Daniel. Why?

  “Who are you?” I asked, wishing the breeze could whisper the answer. “And, what do you mean to my husband?”

  Across the cemetery, the blue jeep was still parked, but I could no longer see the driver. Out toward the exit, the caretaker’s house sat looking as lifeless as these cold stone markers.

  Crouching here, ruining my shoes, asking questions of those who could no longer speak was getting me nowhere. Still, there was one more place I could try before turning the RX back to Nashville.

  The white siding of the rambler-styled home was stained with green splotches of mold, the black shutters chipped and hanging askew. The concrete steps leading up to the door were narrow and cracked from years of trying to settle on a shifting earth. At the top, a five-foot square served as a porch.

  I stretched out a finger and pressed the doorbell. It bonged a weak, unsteady announcement. I back-stepped to the edge of the porch and waited, shoving my nervous hands down into the pockets of my jeans. I’d rung hundreds of doorbells, unannounced, in my days as a social worker. But today without a badge, or official business to conduct, I felt vulnerable and self-conscious, like I had no right to intrude.

  From the inside, the sound of floorboards creaking under unevenly paced footfalls came to a halt on the other side of the door. Someone cleared a throat. The door swung open and a man in a sleeveless flannel shirt looked out at me through a dingy screen.

  “What can I do ya for?” he said over the chew protruding from his lower lip.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a question about one of the markers in your cemetery,” I said, the tone of my voice cresting with my anxiety. “It’s the one that says, ‘Unidentified Woman number one.’”

  He pushed the screen open. The rusty metal nearly brushed the tip of my nose as he came out and stood aside for the door to slam back into place. In order to make room for him on the small porch, I descended the sloping steps back to the cinderblock path.

  “I’m sorry, little missy, but if’n I had any information about that particular marker I couldn’t give it to ya. But seein’ as how it says, ‘Unidentified,’” his eyes flicked over to my car and then down to my toes, “I don’t think I have to explain to a fancy lady like yourself what that means.”

  He studied me closely as his lips pursed to one side and expelled a few drops of black goo. “Ain’t nobody knows.”

  I felt my cheeks color. No one had ever referred to me as fancy before.

  “Right,” I said with a modest chuckle. “I was just wondering if you could tell me anything about the person buried there . . . like what happened to her, or who was responsible for burying her here. There aren’t any dates.”

&
nbsp; For a man who was likely in his sixties, the caretaker shuffled down the steps to face me with considerable agility and crossed his arms over his slight chest. “You ain’t from around are ya?” he asked, and I bit back on my annoyance.

  Why did it seem like Southerners had a way of making outsiders feel welcome on the surface while unwanted, or unworthy, underneath? Acceptance depended on being born and raised down here by Southern-born parents; and if not, you’re an outsider and not to be trusted—simple as that.

  “I live here,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to loosen the tightness in my voice, “over in Green Hills.”

  His eyes scrutinized me. “You lookin’ for a missin’ family member then?” he asked, the deep wrinkles in his leathery skin elongating with a questioning frown.

  I’d bluffed many a client out of personal information they’d been hesitant to share, but the delicate nature of this inquiry had me off my game. “In a manner of speaking,” I croaked out then cleared my throat.

  The caretaker gazed off across the lawn. Spat once more. “Then, in a manner of speakin’, all I can tell ya . . . unofficial-a-course . . . is that that there marker came from the city. They started using this here cemet’ry for the indigent on along about three years past when the Bordeaux Cemet’ry done filled up. I reckon my memory’s not all what it use-ta be, but it’d be a purdy safe bet to trust she were lain here pert-n-near four years back. Give or take six months or so.”

  It took me a moment to decipher his country-speak. “You’re saying she was buried four years ago?” I repeated for clarity, looking into his gray eyes. Shrouded under papery lids, they were sharp as a whip.

  “And if I had to bet, I’d say your memory is every bit what it ‘used to be’ and then some,” I said with a wink.

  He swished my compliment away with a thin, veined arm. “All right, I’ve done told you all I can. You go on now, down to the health department, and look you up a death certificate. Them’s public record in this here state, but don’t tell ’em I’s the one who sent ya.” He pointed a crocked finger at me. “Ya hear?”