Waking Up in Dixie

by Haywood Smith

  A brittle gleam shone in her mother-in-law’s eyes. “Yes, now that you mention it.” She shot a sly look toward Howe. “You can come back to Whittington, where you belong. And have your annual Christmas party early this year. And invite P.J. Atkinson.”

  Patti gasped. “Gamma. That’s crazy.”

  Surely the woman couldn’t be serious. “I’ll move home,” Elizabeth agreed—for the moment, anyway. “But the party . . . and P.J.—Augusta, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “You asked if you could do anything, and that’s what I want you to do,” her mother-in-law challenged. “You’ve already humiliated this family, then run off and abandoned my son. Now I’m giving you a chance to make up for it. Come back and face it with your head held high. That’s my dying wish. Refuse, and I’ll tell everybody in town you cheated on my son.”

  “Gamma!” Patti protested. “Don’t threaten Mama that way. She didn’t do anything wrong, and you know it.”

  “I most certainly do not,” her grandmother snapped, “but that’s irrelevant, at this point. What matters is that she and your father show a united front.” She glared at Elizabeth. “Well? What is it? Have the party and spit in that tale-carrying fool’s eye, or face the consequences.”

  “Mama,” Howe interjected, “it’s not fair to—”

  “Who said anything about fair?” his mother said. “News flash, Howell: Life isn’t fair. Neither is death, but here I lie. So don’t talk to me about fair. Either honor my dying wish, or get out of here and don’t bother coming to my funeral.”

  A funeral Augusta had planned in ostentatious detail, in writing, and prepaid when she turned eighty.

  Howe shot a troubled look to Elizabeth.

  The crazy thing was, Augusta had a point. There were bound to be rumors. If Howe and she faced everyone, together, it might put an end to at least some of the speculation. “All right. I’ll have the party.”

  “And invite P.J.,” Augusta commanded.

  Elizabeth exhaled sharply. “All right.”

  “Mama,” Patti said, “you cannot give some huge party when Gamma’s dying. It’s disrespectful.”

  Augusta scowled at her. “I vow, Patricia, you can be tiresome at times. Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

  “But Gamma—”

  “But Gamma, nothing.” Augusta straightened in her hospital bed. “This is what I want, and I expect you to help your mother. She’s going to have her hands full with me upstairs dying while the rest of Whittington is in the parlor.”

  Elizabeth almost choked. “Upstairs?” Oh, Lord.

  Augusta straightened the sleeve of her silk bed jacket. “That’s what I said.” She met Elizabeth’s surprise with iron will. “Howe was born in that house, and I’ve decided to die there, not in that Johnny-come-lately place I was forced into when you two married.”

  In light of the circumstances, Elizabeth didn’t contradict her, but Augusta had moved out of her own accord—thank God.

  “Or in some hospital or death-hotel they call a hospice facility.” Augusta arched her eyebrows. “Don’t look so shocked. I can afford help—around the clock, if need be. I can take the west suite.” Howe’s.

  She looked to Patti. “And I’ll expect you and your brother to be there till I’m gone, as well.”

  “But Mama,” Howe said, “Charles works downtown. The commute is—”

  “Thousands of other people do it every day. He can do it for me, for a few weeks.” She leveled a smug look at Howe. “Anyway, he’s already agreed. And Pearl is getting their rooms ready, as we speak.”

  Leave it to Augusta to take over Elizabeth’s home without notice or permission. She’d never really surrendered it, anyway.

  “Sounds like you’ve planned everything out,” Elizabeth said, doing her best to keep resentment from her tone.

  “Somebody has to,” her mother-in-law snapped. “You left.”

  “Well, I’m back,” Elizabeth said.

  “Good,” Augusta said with satisfaction. “Just make sure you don’t get in my way.”

  Even dying, Elizabeth’s mother-in-law did as she damned well pleased.

  Lord, help me love this woman somehow. I sure can’t do it on my own.

  That night, back in her own bed, Elizabeth was just about to doze off when Howe sat down beside her on the bed. “Lillibet? Are you asleep?”

  “You’re home.” She roused, foggy. “Augusta—she’s not . . .”

  “No.” Howe sat on the edge of the bed, his silhouette striking in the dim light from the bathroom. “I really appreciate your coming home.” He’d already told her, several times.

  She reached out to stroke his arm, longing for the comfort of his presence in her bed and her heart. “It feels good to be here.” To her surprise, it was true, even with their day of reckoning ahead.

  “I was wondering if it would be okay for us to sleep together,” he said, his voice deep and even.

  Elizabeth welcomed the warmth of his presence in her bed. She’d had enough time alone, so she pulled back the covers on his side. “Sure. Climb in.”

  He got in, then drew her to his side. Her head fit perfectly against his chest as he stroked her hair. “I know I told you to take all the time you needed to make a decision about us, but I can’t help wanting you. I want to hold you and please you till everything else goes away for both of us.”

  Part of Elizabeth was afraid to respond, but the rest was just as lonely as he was, and just as hungry to forget everything and lose herself in lovemaking.

  He ran his hand down her torso, savoring her body like a sculptor approving his masterpiece. Then he brushed his lips across her temple, sending a frisson of desire through her. “God, Lillibet, I love you so much. Let me love you.” He kissed her gently, his breath warm against her skin as his lips trailed lower to whisper against her skin. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t love me back. Could you just pretend, for a while, that you do?”

  She could. She could even love him, if she let herself believe he was who he seemed to be.

  Did it really matter what happened next month, or even next week? Somehow, they’d managed to come to that moment, and she wanted him, too, with all the desire she’d kept pent up inside her over the long, lonely years.

  They were married. He was hers and she was his.

  Why had she been so afraid of that?

  Because there were consequences. “Howe, the test . . .”

  “It came back two weeks ago, clean,” he said, his voice sultry, his groin swollen against her leg. “I’d never risk your health, Lillibet. Not now, or ever. But it’s safe.”

  Of its own will, her palm trailed down his flat stomach to caress the evidence of his arousal, and he gasped, then kissed her with all the fervor of their courtship, and Elizabeth let herself be carried back, willingly sacrificing the future to the present.

  And so he loved her, not with the brief and reckless passion of their youth, but with a growing heat that swelled and exploded like a nova, leaving her spent and sated as ripples of pleasure pulsed through her. She waited till he had fallen asleep to whisper, “I love you, too,” tears of fear and joy escaping the corner of her eye to wet his skin. “I always have, even when I didn’t want to.”

  And for the first time since they’d lost each other, they slept entwined, at peace for that one night, at least.

  The next morning, Elizabeth’s phone rang off the hook with “welcome home” greetings and invitations from Sewing Circle and Altar Guild and Garden Club. Touched by the genuine outpouring of affection, Elizabeth realized how many real friends she did have in Whittington, but she dodged their invitations, pleading Augusta’s poor health. She still wasn’t ready to jump back into things full bore. Not yet. But she did let everyone know that Augusta had asked them to have their annual party early.

  That accomplished, she set about getting the fully renovated house ready for Augusta and making arrangements for the party. Since the theme of the party would be harvest instead of Christmas
, Elizabeth dispatched Patti to shop the wholesalers in Atlanta. In her element at last, Patti transformed the house into a tasteful fairyland of autumn splendor. And every day, Elizabeth’s true friends came by with food or flowers or brief words of encouragement, even though she’d dropped out of their lives and stopped returning their calls when she went to Blue Ridge. Their acceptance and kindness made Elizabeth see Whittington not as a cage, but a haven where she was cared for and respected.

  And the next thing she knew, almost a month had passed, and Howe’s suite had become a hospital room where Augusta was ensconced with a full retinue of nurses and hospice care. And Charles was commuting an hour and a half each way to Atlanta while Elizabeth ran the house and made the final preparations for the big event that felt more like an impending execution than a celebration.

  Now, with the party only three hours away, Elizabeth stood in the beautifully decorated living room, checking to make sure everything was ready, while Pearl and Thomas finished the food in the kitchen.

  Howe sneaked up behind her and put his arms around her. “Maybe we both ought to head for Blue Ridge and let the chips fall where they may,” he teased, nuzzling her neck.

  Elizabeth wasn’t amused. Despite the fact that they were man and wife again, she still felt territorial about the house in the mountains. It was the one thing in the world that was truly hers—a Fortress of Solitude, where no boys were allowed, especially Howe.

  Howe sensed her reaction and turned her to face him. “What?”

  “I . . .” He was still so vulnerable, especially since his mother had grown weaker and weaker without making peace with him or anybody else. “Let’s not talk about Blue Ridge. This party is hard enough without adding that to the mix.”

  He propped his chin on her head, drawing her close. “It’s going to be all right, Elizabeth. No matter what happens tonight, we have each other, and our children. Just think about that.”

  She leaned into him. She’d worried so much about the future, but what good had it done her? Too weary to do it anymore, she finally let go. No matter what happened at the party, tomorrow would come, and they’d face it together. Augusta would die, and they would face that, too.

  “Howe,” she said, “I’m so sorry your mother hasn’t . . . I mean, I know you’ve tried to make peace with her these past few weeks. I’m sorry she hasn’t been willing to do that.” Maybe that was how Augusta expressed her fear and anguish over dying, by trying to control those around her when she couldn’t control what was happening to her. “I know it’s been hard on you.”

  “Not as hard as it would have been without you,” he said.

  Howe released her, waggling his eyebrows salaciously. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go upstairs and take a little nap before the party?”

  Elizabeth had to laugh. “Lord. You are insatiable.” Not that she hadn’t enjoyed it. She looked at him with narrowed eyes and whispered, “You’re not taking anything, are you?”

  Howe smiled. “Don’t have to.” He gave her rear a grab. “Maybe it was the stroke, but I’m ready Freddie.”

  Elizabeth swatted his hand away. “Quit that,” she said mildly. “We don’t have time for a nap.”

  “Now, that’s what I like to see,” Charles said from the foyer.

  Elizabeth colored with embarrassment, but Howe beamed. “Hey, son. Did the judge let you off early?”

  Charles grinned. “Yep. But only if I promised he could come to the party.”

  “Charles, you did not tell him P.J. was coming,” Elizabeth scolded.

  Her son wasn’t intimidated. “Mama, don’t you know it’s a crime to lie to a federal judge?”

  “Yes,” she shot back, “but I also know you should never volunteer anything that might be incriminating. Especially to your mother.”

  “Touché,” Howe said.

  Elizabeth headed for the stairs. “Help your daddy light the fires. I’m going upstairs to do my hair and change.”

  True to form, Miss Emily Watson arrived half an hour early, but this time, Charles was there to charm her, then invite her up to visit with Augusta.

  Elizabeth’s friends came next, all of them right on time and supportive. The rest of Augusta’s cronies were close behind, along with the ones who were hoping for Elizabeth’s and Howe’s comeuppance. And the merely curious filled out the guest list, so within thirty minutes of the time on the engraved invitations, everybody who was anybody in Whittington had arrived and started chatting, their eyes on the door as if they knew P.J. was coming.

  Meanwhile, Augusta’s cronies made their pilgrimages to her bedside in twos and threes. With Patti as her lady-in-waiting, Augusta held court in her best pink bed jacket, her mood even crankier than usual, probably because she’d insisted on cutting back the morphine so she’d be awake for her company.

  Howe and Elizabeth circulated through the gathering downstairs, visiting and encouraging their guests to eat and drink, but the atmosphere was brittle as diamonds. Elizabeth felt as if she were in one of those dreams where she was naked, but nobody had noticed . . . yet. Both she and Howe kept looking toward the door as if death himself were going to turn up any minute.

  A lot was said, but what wasn’t being said hung over their guests like a pall, waiting to descend.

  Then the bell rang, and Pearl opened the door to reveal P.J., a dark glitter in his eye and a scowl on his face.

  Conversation halted abruptly as all eyes turned his way, then shifted from him to Elizabeth and Howe, then back to P.J.

  Elizabeth stopped breathing, the throbbing of her pulse the only sound in the silence.

  Pearl tried to close the door on P.J., but he grabbed the edge and forced himself past her. “I was invited,” he said loudly.

  Oh, Lord. He’d been drinking.

  Elizabeth felt Howe and Charles move in to flank her, and the judge was close behind. Howe took her cold, quaking hand in his.

  “I need to see Howe and Elizabeth,” P.J. said loudly. “I have something to say to them, and I want everybody in this room to hear it.”

  He was so angry.

  Elizabeth felt the corner of her mouth start to flutter, and covered it with her free hand.

  Grim, Howe looked P.J. square in the eye as he approached. “Hello, P.J.” His arm slid protectively around Elizabeth’s waist.

  “You,” P.J. said with contempt.

  Elizabeth braced herself for the worst.

  “I . . .” P.J. seemed as if he couldn’t make the words come out, then finally managed, “I owe you both an apology.”

  Elizabeth stilled, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

  P.J. glared at Howe with hatred. “I did my best to steal your wife, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with me, so I shot my mouth off, but none of what I said was true, and I apologize.” He pointed a shaking finger toward Howe. “And be sure you tell your mother I said so.”

  Then he pivoted and stormed out the door.

  After a heartbeat of silence, pandemonium erupted all around them, but Howe and Elizabeth stood staring at each other in amazement.

  The judge and Charles hee-hawed.

  “Am I hallucinating,” Howe asked her, “or did he just admit he lied and apologize?”

  “He did.” But why?

  They both voiced the same thought in unison. “Mama,” and “Augusta.”

  As P.J.’s Mercedes SUV roared away with a squeal of tires, Howe and Elizabeth flew upstairs together and burst into Augusta’s room.

  “Patti,” Howe said, “go downstairs to help your brother with our guests. We need to talk to Gamma.”

  No fool, Patti looked from her father to her grandmother’s smug expression. “Why? What happened?”

  “Your brother will tell you.” Howe turned to the nurse. “Please excuse us.”

  “Yes, sir,” the nurse said as she rose. “Just call if you need me. I’ll be right outside.”

  “Not too close,” Howe cautioned. There had been enough gossip already.

>   They waited till the door was closed to flank Augusta’s bed.

  “How did you do it, Mama?”

  Augusta smoothed her bed jacket, focusing on the rosebud buttons. “I simply convinced him it was in his best interest to tell the truth and apologize. Publicly.”

  “But how?” Elizabeth demanded.

  Augusta shot her a brief, critical glance. “You can’t very well expect me to sit idly by after Patti told me about his coming over and making such a scene. So I called the boy and explained that if he didn’t recant and apologize, publicly, I would tell his dying father that he’s not his father.”

  What? That didn’t compute. “Who’s not whose father?”

  Augusta glared at Elizabeth as if she were a simpleton. “P.J.’s father is not P.J.’s father.”

  Howe scowled. “And how would you know that?”

  “I make it a habit to know everything that concerns me and mine,” Augusta told them evenly, keeping her voice low enough not to be overheard. “And the fact is, P.J.’s mother was having an affair with your father when she got pregnant. Of course, I never discussed the matter with your father. It would have been demeaning.” Howe stood, stunned, as she went on. “I wasn’t sure whose child the boy was till the DNA tests were available, then I confirmed it with a blood test,” Augusta said calmly. “I needed to be forearmed, if it ever came to light.”

  “And P.J. agreed to the test?” Howe asked in disbelief.

  “For heaven’s sake, no. Do you think I’m a fool?” Augusta winced briefly in physical pain, then resumed. “I had Dr. Collins take the sample when he did P.J.’s physical, then I sent the sample off myself, under a made-up name, with some of your father’s hair from his baby book.”

  This was absolutely Machiavellian.

  “How in hell did you get Dr. Collins to do that?” Howe demanded. “He could lose his license for doing that.”

  “Everyone has his Achilles’ heel,” Howe’s mother gloated. “Including Dr. Collins.” She looked from Howe to Elizabeth. “Well, don’t thank me all at once.”

  “P.J. Atkinson is my brother?” Howe sank to the chair the nurse had been sitting in.