Yes. Vivien knew all that. She also knew that Zelda had bouts of manic genius that inspired her to write beautiful prose. “Don’t you think I was made for you?” She quoted. “I feel like you had me ordered and I was delivered to you—to be worn. I want you to wear me like a watch-chain or buttonhole bouquet—to the world.”
“Impressive.”
Vivien could recall most lines of dialogue from any role she’d ever played. “I was cast as Zelda in The Last Flapper one summer in a small theater on South Sepulveda.” Vivien shrugged, took her last bite of strawberry, and put the stem on her plate. “I think it was more likely that Zelda was bipolar rather than schizophrenic. And I suspect that, like then as now, treatment didn’t help everyone. At least not one hundred percent.”
The two women looked across the table at each other with a shared history and awareness. Viewing Nonnie through the eyes of an adult, she seemed less intimidating. Almost human. Like Henry yesterday, she was being thoughtful. Vivien chalked it up to Nonnie’s regard for her mother and perhaps the same shock they all felt. “Momma seemed to struggle less the last few years.”
“I think you’re right.” Nonnie took a bite of toast and washed it down with her tea before she asked, “Are you worried you’ll develop Macy Jane’s illness?”
Not that the reason behind Nonnie’s concern mattered. Vivien was just grateful. “Now that I’m thirty, I don’t worry about it as much. Each time I get a little too happy, it does cross my mind, though.” The cell phone next to Vivien’s plate vibrated and she picked it up. Her chest squeezed even as every other part of her body went numb. She glanced at Nonnie, then pressed the “connect” button. “Hello.” Vivien looked at her hand gripping the table’s edge and listened as the medical examiner explained that her mother had died from a myocardial infarction caused by a pulmonary embolism. He used words like deep vein thrombosis and right ventricle failure and acute vascular obstruction. Vivien said yes and no and felt numbed by the information coming at her. Likely, there’d been no signs or symptoms. Once it traveled to her heart, there had been nothing that could have been done to save her. Not even if she’d been in the hospital.
Vivien’s world narrowed and turned dark and blurry around the edges and she could think of only one last question to ask: “Did my momma suffer?”
“No,” the medical examiner assured her. “It happened very fast.”
She pressed “disconnect,” then looked across the table. “Momma died from a blood clot in her heart,” she said, and for the first time that Vivien could recall, Nonnie’s composure slipped. Her strength, both elegant and stern, drained from her stiff shoulders and she actually put her elbows on the table.
“How did she get a blood clot in her heart?”
“The medical examiner said it came from her thigh.” And for the first time that she could recall, she saw the Mantis as a person capable of real human feelings. “Did she seem tired lately?”
“No.” Nonnie folded her arms on the table.
“Worked up?” Vivien took a sip of tea. “Henry mentioned something about a Twitter war.” Of all things.
“That.” Nonnie waved a hand. “She was naturally offended by the Georgia UDC’s ridiculous claim that they serve the best shrimp and grits at their annual fundraising event in Savannah. She corrected our Georgia sisters using the Twitter, but she wasn’t worked up. She was more excited about scrapbook paper and stencils being on sale at the Walmart.” Nonnie sat back in her chair. “I got up to pour another glass of merlot and I heard a thump. I turned around and Macy Jane was on the floor.” Anguish pinched the corners of her eyes and her pointed chin quivered. “I tried to wake her up. I don’t know CPR and felt so helpless.”
“The medical examiner said there was nothing anyone could have done.” Vivien watched Nonnie battle with her emotions. “Even if she’d been in the hospital.”
The older woman nodded once and cleared her throat. Like a door slamming shut, control won out and she was all business once more. “Did your momma ever mention her preference in funeral arrangements?”
“She was fifty. What healthy, fifty-year-old woman talks about funeral preferences?” Now it was Vivien’s turn for her chin to quiver. She was an actress but couldn’t pull herself together like Nonnie. The tighter she held her emotions inside, the more they leaked out. “I have no idea what she would have preferred or where to start.”
“Well, I think Macy Jane would want to be laid out at Stuhr’s, with her service at St. Phillips Episcopal.”
Vivien nodded. Stuhr’s took care of politicians and distinguished families alike. She heard the front door open and close and breathed a sigh of relief when Sarah walked into the kitchen.
“How are you doing this morning?” Sarah asked as she breezed into the kitchen with her phone to one ear, her computer notebook in the crook of her arm, and a Starbucks triple grande, nonfat, no foam, latte in her free hand.
“Thank God.” Vivien stood and took the coffee from her assistant. “You read my mind.” She’d had several assistants in the past few years and Sarah’s ability to know what Vivien needed without constant urging was just one of the reasons she put up with some of Sarah’s immature antics.
“Did you get any rest?”
“I managed a little sleep,” she said as Sarah air kissed her cheek.
“Good.” Sarah looked rested and fresh and totally L.A. with her tousled blonde curls, super skinny jeans, and bandage crop top. Chunky bracelets circled one wrist and an orange leather tote hung from one elbow. “I put together your schedule for the next few weeks, and Randall Hoffman’s secretary confirmed your lunch for the twelfth.”
“That’s this Friday.” Randall Hoffman was an Academy Award-winning director and production of his latest period drama was set to start next month. The actress originally cast in the lead role had dropped out, and Vivien wanted that part. She needed that part to show her acting versatility. Today was Monday. How many days usually passed between death and the funeral? She’d never dealt with anything like this before and honestly had no idea.
“And Friday morning is your table read for Psychic Detectives.”
Psychic Detectives was a hit HBO series and she couldn’t pull out now. Not when she was due on the set to start filming in a week. “Okay.” She could be in L.A. Friday, then back to Charleston after the table read. “We can have Momma’s funeral any day but Friday.”
Sarah pulled two packs of Truvia from her tote and handed them over. “You have your second audition for the Steven Soderbergh film on Thursday.”
“You’ll have to reschedule the audition.” Vivien retraced her steps. “Sarah, this is Mrs. Whitley-Shuler. Nonnie, my assistant, Sarah.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sarah said and returned her attention to her cellphone.
“The pleasure is mine.” The pearl-wearing matriarch towered over the two of them like she was a queen. Slight displeasure appeared on her angular face.
Vivien carefully opened her latte and set it on the table. She tore open the white and green packets and dumped the artificial sweetener into her coffee. She didn’t know what bee had climbed into Nonnie’s bonnet, but she did recognize the pinch at the corners of her lips.
“The Enquirer called your publicist regarding the Christian Forsyth rumor.” Sarah’s thumb busily scrolled the screen of her cell phone as Vivien stirred her coffee. “She gave him a ‘no comment.’” Sarah was good at her job. Very little fell through the cracks, but at the moment, every word she uttered felt like another twist of Vivien’s already tight emotions. “People will feature you wearing the black-and-gold Dolce and Gabbana in their Red Carpet Spotlight next month, and they want a short Q and A about that special night.” She paused and Vivien fought the urge to grab the phone and throw it. With each item on her schedule, her anxiety rose. It was too much. It was just all too much. “We haven’t nailed down an exact date for your Tonight Show appearance. We’re waiting to see if they’ll reschedule to fit your calendar. Your l
andscapers broke the Venition urn next to your cabaña and . . .” She paused as her thumb scrolled lower.
“Good gravy, sweetheart,” Nonnie said as she took the phone from Sarah’s hand and dropped it in the tote. “Vivien is grieving her momma. Can’t all that wait?”
Taken aback, Sarah’s gaze darted from Vivien to Nonnie then back again. Poor Sarah. Before she’d come to work for Vivien, she’d dealt with a few difficult actresses and a wild pop princess, but she’d never met anyone like the Mantis. “What?”
For the first time in Vivien’s life, she was grateful for Ms. Eleanor Whitley-Shuler, direct descendent of Colonel John C. Whitley, secessionist and aristocrat. “Just tell everyone I have a family emergency and I don’t know when I’ll be back. Reschedule everything for the next two weeks.” She took a breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t give a darn about the dang urn.”
Sarah’s lips drew tight. “You start shooting Psychic Detectives on the nineteenth.”
“Okay.” She’d rack up some serious frequent flyer miles before she’d settled everything here. “There’s so much that needs to be done here.” Vivien knew she was asking a lot, but it couldn’t be helped. “But we should be able to get a lot done within the next two weeks.”
“We? Two weeks? You want me here for the next two weeks?” Sarah’s lips drew tighter and she shook her head. “There is no way I can be gone for two weeks, Vivien. I can’t leave Patrick alone for that long.”
Vivien raised her coffee to her lips and took a sip. This was a perfect example of Sarah’s immature antics. “My momma just passed and you’re worried about your cheating boyfriend?”
“He’s not a cheater. You don’t know him.”
Vivien laughed without humor and couldn’t believe she was having this conversation in her dead momma’s kitchen. She’d known a lot of pretty boys like Patrick. Out-of-work actors, supported by lame jobs and gullible girls. She used to be one of those girls. “I know he’s a parasite who uses women with low expectations and can’t be trusted.” Which just proved that smart women like Sarah, and like herself, too, could be dumb when it came to men. “I need you here with me.” This day had started off crappy and the last thing she needed was a total shit storm between her and Sarah. Especially in front of Nonnie.
Again Vivien heard the front door open and close and within in seconds, Henry appeared behind her assistant. Great, the second to the last thing she needed was another Whitley-Shuler spectator. “You have to stay.”
“I can’t.”
Henry balanced a big white cake in one hand and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head with the other. He stopped in the doorway and his gaze met Vivien’s over the top of Sarah’s blonde head. “I need to finish my morning Starbucks before I can deal with this,” she said as her hand found the front of her robe to make sure it was closed. At the moment, Vivien had bigger problems than Henry’s sudden appearance, and she returned her attention to her assistant. “We forgot to pack underwear, and I don’t have a dress. You need to find me a black dress.”
“I need Patrick.”
“I need underwear.”
“I can’t stay.”
“I can’t walk into the mall and buy a dress, Sarah. Not without security.”
“I won’t lose Patrick.”
“You should. He’s a loser.”
“Ladies,” Nonnie interrupted. “I’ll make sure you get clothing, Vivien.”
Vivien looked into Sarah’s determined face and knew she was leaving, with or without her job. “Fine.” Sarah could be a pain in the butt, but she was a good assistant, for the most part. It would take months to find and train someone new. Someone loyal who she could trust not to leak information about her private life to the tabloids. “Go home and work from L.A. It will probably be easier anyway.” Vivien could manage by herself. She hadn’t made her own appointments, called a car service, or carried her own bags in years, but she was certainly capable.
“Thank you.” Sarah quickly fished her phone from her tote and promptly ordered the cab that had just dropped her off to return. “I’ll grab my stuff and book my flight while I’m on the way to the airport.” She disconnected and adjusted the notebook in the crook of her arm. “Patrick loves me,” she said in the way women had of excusing men while trying to convince themselves as well as everyone else. “He’s a really good guy.”
“He’s a man skank. He’ll sleep with your Spanish neighbor, your Korean best friend, and the Russian girl around the block like he’s a foreign-relations operative. Then if you make a name for yourself, he’ll sell a story about you to the Enquirer.” Vivien waved her hand across the air in front of her. It wouldn’t even matter if the story was true. “Go.”
Sarah turned and almost collided with the three-layer coconut cake Henry held in his hands.
“Whoa there.” Henry fought to balance the glass plate in front of his chest. A few slivers of coconut fell to the floor, and just when it looked like he might win, the cake tipped and fell into his black polo shirt. “Damn.”
“Sorry.” Sarah sucked white frosting off the side of her hand and breezed past him.
He looked down at the cake lying against his shirt then brought his gaze back to Vivien. “She must belong to you.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” Vivien lowered her hands to the silk belt of her robe and once again made sure it was still closed around her. “She’s young and thinks she’s in love.”
Nonnie stepped forward and took the cake from Henry’s hands and carried it to the table. “Youth is no excuse for bad manners. She wasn’t raised right.”
Henry stared down at the patch of white frosting and coconut on his shirt. “Ms. Jeffers was just dropping off her cake as I pulled in the driveway.” He looked up. “She said she’ll be bringing over a chicken-and-rice casserole as soon as it thaws.”
“Wait.” Vivien pointed to the floor. “She’s not bringing it here, right?”
“Etta’s going to crow about being the first on the scene with her condolence cake, and she’ll naturally expect to see it at the reception next to Louisa Deering’s Twinkie loaf just to show off.” Nonnie sighed and put one long finger to her bottom lip as she studied the lopsided cake. “For Christmas, Louisa made a wreath out of those little cocktail weenies. Bless her heart.”
“Ms. Jeffers isn’t bringing her casserole to this house. Right?” Vivien repeated herself. She’d been to a handful of funerals growing up, and she clearly recalled table after table weighted down with every conceivable kind of casserole and salad concoction. The last thing she needed to deal with was Cherry Coke Jell-O.
“No. This kitchen is too small for bereavement offerings.”
Just as Vivien thought, a ton of funeral food was headed her way.
“I’ll call Etta and have her tell the ladies at St. Phillip’s to come to the front of the big house.” The top layer of the cake slid off and broke into several pieces. “Well, there is nothing that can be done for that cake now. I’ll tell Etta we couldn’t help ourselves and ate it up.”
Nonnie was going to lie? The woman who’d always demanded Vivien tell the truth or receive some sort of punishment? Vivien opened her mouth and, before she thought better of it, said, “‘Lies make baby Jesus cry.’”
Nonnie’s head whipped around and her wide eyes narrowed. “Little white lies, told in loving kindness, are God’s tender mercies.”
“Where’s that in the Bible?”
Henry’s deep chuckle made both women turn their attention on him. Amusement shined in his deep brown eyes as he walked to the counter and pulled a paper towel from the roll. “Some shit never changes.”
“Henry! I did not send you to the best schools in the country for you to express yourself with common vulgarities.”
“Pardon my common vulgarities.” Henry looked down and wiped thick frosting and coconut from his shirt. “With all the bossing and sassing, it sounds like old times around here.” He glanced up and recognized the displeasure in his mother�
�s gaze before he turned his attention to Vivien. It didn’t look like old times, though. Vivien was no longer the plump little girl who stuck her tongue out at people when she thought they weren’t looking. All grown up and gorgeous, she made him think of interesting places she could stick her tongue.
“No one is bossing anyone around, Henry Thomas. I’m offering gentle guidance. I don’t know where you get your ideas.” His mother carried two plates of half-eaten toast to the counter. “I’ll go call the parish rector and make him aware of Macy Jane’s passing. I’m sure we can get in to see him today.”
“Today?” Vivien looked overwhelmed and anxious and gorgeous. Her hair still sleep tousled and her thin little body wrapped in silk. He’d noticed how skinny she was last night. He’d noticed other changes in her, too. Like losing her accent. Which was a real shame. Henry truly did love sweet words spilling like honey from a Southern girl’s lips.
“It has to be done before we make arrangements with Stuhr’s. You’ll need to choose a time and day and Eucharistic ministers.”
“Oh.” Vivien’s green eyes rounded a little and she shook her head. A length of her dark hair fell forward and she pushed it back. “I don’t know anything about planning a funeral or Eucharistic ministers.”
“That’s because you didn’t spend enough time in the community of Christ contemplating sin and mortality. I’ll make a call to St. Phillip’s and make the appointment to see Father Dinsmore,” said the woman who claimed she wasn’t bossy.
Henry threw the paper towel away as his mother walked from the kitchen. “There she goes. The arbiter of sin and mortality.”
“For once in my life, I’m sort of grateful Nonnie is so high and mighty and bossy.” Vivien glanced across at him and her green eyes widened. “Oh, sorry to talk about your momma like that.”
Once again, she’d managed to sound sincere. “High and mighty and bossy describes her fairly well.”
Vivien moved a few steps to the table and grabbed a Starbucks coffee cup. “Never thought I’d live to hear a lie come from her mouth.” From the side, she looked so thin he could slip her through a mail slot.
Just Kiss Me Page 5
