The Ladies of Garrison Gardens

by Louise Shaffer

  Laurel arrived at the entrance gate, was waved through, and drove down treeless streets to her destination. SUVs were clearly the vehicle of choice in the neighborhood, and the houses were built right up to the property lines, giving the place a claustrophobic feel in spite of the obvious wealth. But for such a densely packed area, it was as quiet as the surreal shopping plaza in Atlanta. Where the hell did rich people stash their kids? she wondered. Or their pets? Then she remembered she was a rich person. A rich person who had come to discuss her holdings.

  A maid wearing a Garrison resort uniform opened the door to the Lawrence manse, but the man of the house was right behind her. “Laurel, welcome,” he said, with what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm.

  Just Call Me Stuart wasn't bad looking. He was in his middle sixties, not quite six feet tall, with a compact body that was probably the result of upscale enthusiasms like swimming, tennis, and, given the game of choice at the resort, golf. He had a full head of snowy hair and a pair of mild brown eyes behind little square glasses. For dinner at home he wore a sports jacket in a plaid that was so muted it was practically nonexistent. He was also wearing a bow tie, a nerdy touch Laurel tried to tell herself was endearing.

  “Come into the living room, please,” he said, ushering her in. Laurel had an impression of high ceilings, oversize windows looking out on the unreal green of the golf course, and puffy furniture covered with pale silks that made her want to wash her hands before she touched them. Some kind of overhead system provided selective pools of mood lighting around the living room. The effect was probably supposed to be warm and cozy, but it made Laurel uncomfortably aware that her skirt and blouse had cost twenty-two bucks on sale. She focused on the bow tie and reminded herself to keep an open mind.

  Stuart's daddy had been known in Charles Valley as Mr. Dalt's man behind the scenes. The gossip in town was that the son was no match for the father in the Great Man Sweepstakes. Still, there was something about Junior that said he thought he was smarter than most of his fellow humans, and that those mild brown eyes could go cold in seconds if he was crossed.

  Stop it, Laurel told herself. You hated the three Miss Margarets before you got to know them.

  A voice sang out, “You must be Laurel Selene.”

  “Laurel, my wife,” Junior said, as a woman swept into the room and grasped Laurel's hand.

  “I'm Lindy Lee Lawrence,” she announced. “Isn't that name like every bad joke you've ever heard about the South? It took me two years to decide to marry Stuart because of it.” She exploded in a surprising cackle of mirth. It was the sound of someone who laughed alone a lot.

  Lindy Lee was probably in her late fifties, and when she was young she'd been a beauty. The remnants of it still clung to her, especially in her blue-green eyes. But she'd chosen not to go the Botox/surgery/hair-dye route, and nature was taking its toll. Her thick mane of hair was as white as Junior's, and her jawline was beginning to sag. She was taller than Laurel, but it was hard to tell what her figure was like because she was wearing a top made of yards of filmy blue-green cloth over a pair of wide black pants. Her jewelry was large and plentiful, featuring blue stones and gold, but her feet were bare. Her toenails, Laurel noted, were not painted.

  Throughout supper, it seemed to be the job of the lady of the house to keep the conversation afloat. Laurel learned that her hostess was born in Mississippi, “in the golden buckle of the cotton belt.” She had refused to “come out” as her mama had wished her to, and she had marched with Dr. King from Selma to Montgomery, which was presumably something Mama had not wished for.

  “I wanted to be a writer, like you, Laurel—a newspaper writer. Well, I guess almost everyone did. Gloria Steinem was our heroine. She proved the pen was mightier than the sword.”

  “Especially when she was wearing that Playboy Bunny outfit,” Junior said, with a chuckle.

  “She wore that to go undercover and write an article about the exploitation of women,” Lindy Lee protested—but very mildly. Her husband didn't seem to notice. Lindy Lee went back to her monologue, flowing seamlessly from Ms. Steinem to the Lawrence daughter, whom she had named Gloria, although Lindy Lee referred to her as My Child. It was obvious that My Child was the light of her mother's life.

  “She's about your age, Laurel. Lives in New York City and works for television. As a producer and a writer, if you please, in the news department of that new women's channel—you know, the one that isn't Oprah's.”

  “Her show goes on at five-thirty in the morning, and six people watch it,” put in Junior. Laurel got the feeling that My Child was not the light of his life.

  “She's living her mama's dream and giving me an excuse to make regular visits to the big city,” said Lindy Lee, exploding into her cackle laugh.

  “She'll be lucky if she doesn't get herself raped and killed,” said the loving father.

  Without missing a beat, Lindy Lee changed the subject again. “Have the charity vultures descended on you yet, Laurel?” she asked.

  “No,” Laurel said, startled.

  “Well, they'll be swooping down on your poor battered head, darlin', just as soon as word of Peggy's will gets out.”

  “I hadn't . . . thought of that.”

  “Peggy funded all kinds of charities, you know. Everyone will be frantic to get to you. I might hit you up myself for a little cash for a friend of mine who's running for the state senate—”

  “A run your friend is going to lose,” Stuart cut in. “Laurel might as well burn her money.” He stood up, indicating that the conversation was over. “Laurel and I should get started. Lindy Lee, will you have the maid bring coffee and dessert to my den?”

  His wife hadn't finished eating. When he stood up, she was in the process of chewing a forkful of peas. But she scrambled to her feet. “Of course,” she said brightly. “Dessert is peach mousse. I do hope you like it, Laurel. It's Stuart's favorite in the world.”

  In the den, the maid served a pinkish mess and took herself out. Junior sat behind a heavily polished and carved table that seemed to double as his desk and indicated that Laurel should settle into a puffy silk chair. There was a nasty-looking pile of documents at his elbow. “This money you've inherited is going to change your life, Laurel,” he said. “It's my challenge to make sure the changes are for your own good.”

  His eyes behind the glasses were earnest, and he seemed very sincere. True, he did treat his wife as if she were the household pet, but Laurel had learned long ago not to judge a man by his marriage.

  “Inheriting a fortune is not the lark everyone thinks it's going to be,” he went on. “If I may be blunt, it helps if you have a few generations of being wealthy under your belt.”

  “That lets me out.”

  He gave her a conspiratorial little grin. “You and me both. My daddy was not to the manner born. Lindy Lee's family is from the crowd that says ‘my people' when they mean ‘my kin.' But my daddy was just a small-town lawyer from Nowhere, Georgia.”

  I'm not sure that puts you in the same class as the bastard kid of the town lush, Laurel thought, but she nodded politely.

  “Miss Myrtis was the one who discovered my father. Did you know that? She brought him to Mr. Dalt's attention. Over the years they both came to rely on Daddy, and I'm proud to tell you he never let them down.” Junior sorted through the pile of papers and pulled out a folder that he handed to Laurel. “I put together some material you can look over at your leisure. About one-third of your portfolio is invested in the Garrison resort. You own the entire company. The gardens do not belong to you; they are a part of the Garrison Trust, which is a charitable organization. However, the board of directors makes all decisions concerning the gardens, and you have the deciding vote on that board.”

  Laurel's head snapped up from the pages she'd been trying to read. “Excuse me?”

  “Because the interests of the resort and the gardens are so closely intertwined, when the charitable trust was formed, the Garrison family retained contro
l of the gardens by giving the deciding vote to the owner of the resort. That means you.”

  “Me?” She swallowed hard. “I'm in charge of the gardens?”

  “And the resort—since you are the sole owner.”

  For the second time that week, she felt laughter bubbling up inside. “Did you ever meet my ma?” she asked.

  Junior shot her a relieved look. “Good,” he said, with a sigh. “I'm glad you see the . . . incongruity in the situation.”

  “It's bone-ass crazy.”

  “Fortunately, there's a way to handle it. If I may, I'd like to give you a little history. When Miss Myrtis married Mr. Dalt she had a substantial fortune of her own, much of which she sank into the resort. That entitled her to a voice on the board of the gardens and shares of stock in the resort. But since she felt, as you feel about yourself, that she wasn't equipped to be a part of the decision-making process, she signed over a limited power of attorney to my daddy.”

  “Which meant . . . ?”

  “My father voted for her at both entities. And after Miss Peggy inherited everything from Mr. Dalt, she followed in Miss Myrtis's footsteps and let my father continue in the role he had filled for so many years. On his passing, Miss Peggy transferred the authority to me.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a form, which he slid across the table. “This is the power of attorney. As you can see, it's renewable every year.”

  Laurel scanned the paper in front of her. “Miss Myrtis was the one who started doing this?”

  “Yes. She felt my daddy could best look out for her interests. And Mr. Dalt's too. Although he voted for himself.”

  I bet he did. The old tyrant would make his wives sign over their authority, but Mr. Dalt would vote for himself.

  “Of course, in the last years of his life, Dalton let Daddy represent him too.” Which shot that theory.

  “And Peggy always signed? Every year?” But she already knew the answer to that. Poor Peggy hadn't had the courage to change the master bedroom in the house she'd called home for forty-five years. No way would she have insisted on having her say at the gardens and the resort, if the great Miss Myrtis hadn't done it.

  “Miss Peggy saw the value of the precedent that had been set.” Junior just happened to have a pen handy. He placed it in front of her.

  “And now you want me to sign too.”

  “It's your decision, obviously. But you've made it pretty clear that you don't think you're prepared to take on a responsibility of this nature.”

  “I'm not.” But she didn't pick up the pen.

  “Signing in no way affects your ownership of the assets. I will not be making any decision about your stock portfolio. You'll have people to advise you about that. You will still get the same allowance, the house in Charles Valley is yours, you can use the apartments in Atlanta and New York and the lodge in Colorado, you get services from the gardens and the resort, the Garrison jet is at your disposal, and all the other amenities—none of that changes.”

  “I see,” she said, to say something.

  “Is there anything you don't understand that I can explain?”

  He wanted her to sign—wanted it bad—but was that unreasonable? Would anyone in their right mind want her making the decisions for the gardens and the resort? It sure as hell wasn't what she wanted. But she still didn't pick up the pen.

  “Let me tell you about the men who work for . . . well, actually, many of them work for you,” Junior said. “At the resort, Peter Terranova, who was a rising star at one of the largest hotel chains in the world, is our CEO. He's put together a senior management staff of eight of the top men in the field, who run the hotel and the facilities connected to it. Sitting on the board of the foundation, we have two CEOs of major corporations, one former senator, a former head of the Canning Arts Foundation, and three lawyers who are all senior partners in highly respected firms, including yours truly. Dr. Michael Whittlesey, who headed up the Grenier Botany Project, oversees the gardens. Most of us have been involved with the gardens or the resort in some capacity for at least five years. I've been there since I took over for my father back in the eighties.”

  “That's . . . impressive.”

  “It is indeed. With all due respect, Laurel, do you think you belong in the room with us?”

  “No.”

  “Then is there some other reason why you don't want to sign that power of attorney?”

  She didn't have a reason, only a mindless resistance. “I just don't know if I'm ready to give up something I didn't even know I had twenty minutes ago.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I realize this is all coming at you very quickly. But we're in a fast-moving industry. Sometimes Pete and Mike and I have to make decisions overnight. Right now we're paralyzed at both the gardens and the resort because I don't have any authority. If I seem to be pushing you, that's why.”

  She smiled to show that she didn't mind his pushing. But she couldn't give in.

  Stuart leaned forward again. “Laurel, I know this is going to sound old-fashioned and corny, but I feel I'm a keeper of the flame. My father helped build the resort and the gardens. Miss Myrtis, Mr. Dalt, and Miss Peggy gave him the privilege of representing them, and that torch was passed to me. Three people—all of whom were highly intelligent—chose my father and me to perform this service for them. Business aside, I have personal and sentimental reasons for hoping you want to let me continue a proud family tradition. Through me, I see a line stretching from Miss Myrtis to Miss Peggy to you.”

  Maybe that was why she was balking. Stuart Junior and his power of attorney were a legacy from Miss Myrtis, just like Miss Myrtis's log house and her damn Benedict antiques. So maybe Laurel Selene McCready didn't feel like trotting obediently in the great lady's footsteps. Or maybe she was just being bullheaded.

  “Can I have a couple of days to think about it?”

  He wasn't happy about it, but he knew when to back off. “Take your time.”

  He ushered her out into the hallway, and Lindy Lee materialized magically at his side to take over with the social chitchat as she and Stuart walked Laurel to the front door. “I've been wanting to tell you how much I admired you for the way you stepped in with Peggy,” she said. “All of us who cared about her were so grateful to you. And of course, dear Perry! Aren't we lucky he's come back home? I've been racking my poor old brains trying to find some delicious young thing for him to fall in love with, to keep him here for good.”

  It would not be ladylike to tell her to mind her own business, Laurel decided.

  Lindy Lee's verbal avalanche continued. “Well, now, I guess this is good-bye. You must come back and see us again soon. My, what a pretty car! It's so . . . low. Drive carefully, the deer are all over the place this time of year.”

  She paused long enough for Stuart and Laurel to murmur “good night” at each other, and then Laurel was free to climb into her car and drive away. The ordeal was over.

  Chapter Fifteen

  LAUREL WOKE UP EARLY the next morning and was on the road by seven. She'd put on another of the skirts Hank had forced her to wear to work. Originally she'd paired it with the matching blouse that had come with it, but on her way out of the bedroom she'd caught sight of herself in the mirror and had quickly ditched the demure top for a scoop-neck T-shirt. It was an improvement, but still not right. She'd been about to change into her jeans when she'd had a burst of inspiration. She grabbed one of her wide belts and hiked the skirt up so it was just above her knees. The result wasn't trashy, but it didn't look like she had anything to hide either.

  Now, as the Viper roared along, the skirt flared nicely over her thighs. She was headed for the old part of Charles Valley, where, sixty-odd years ago, a young Dr. Maggie had set up her clinic in an abandoned sweet potato warehouse next to the railroad station.

  The trains had stopped running to Charles Valley and the railroad station had long since been turned into a tourist restaurant that featured down-home cooking, quaintly mismatched crocke
ry, and mason jars used as drinking glasses. But Maggie's clinic hadn't changed since she'd had air-conditioning put in back in the 1960s. Entering it was like walking into a time warp. The old kitchen chairs in the waiting area had worn a pattern on the bare wooden floor, and the small icebox in the corner still held cold lemonade for those who wanted to help themselves. Hours at the clinic hadn't changed either; it was open six days a week, from seven-thirty in the morning until four-thirty in the afternoon, with half an hour off at eleven-thirty for lunch. However, now that she had a partner, Maggie allowed herself the indulgence of sleeping in until eight and didn't arrive at work until nine-thirty. Perry handled the early morning hours by himself until the nurse came in.

  Laurel found him drinking a cup of coffee and looking out the window at some squirrels fighting on the rusty old railroad tracks. He was wearing a crisp white doctor's coat over his jeans.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He turned and his eyes lit up appreciatively when he saw the skirt. Which was no reason for her to blush, for God's sake.

  “Hi,” he said happily.

  “I wanted to thank you. For fixing up the CD player for Li'l Bit. She loves it.”

  “You're the one who gave it to her.”

  “But you're the one who set it up.”

  “Well, you said you were afraid she wouldn't be able to.”

  “I was. But you made it so she could.” There had to be a way the conversation could be more lame, but at the moment she couldn't think of it. “I gotta go,” she said.

  “You do?”