Now, six months later, Queenie and Spud will exchange their vows on the beach in front of the house this very day. Old Sally will be officiating, along with the young priest who buried Iris, Queenie’s half sister. Iris was a Savannah matriarch known for being difficult, and Queenie served as her personal assistant for thirty-five years. The priest’s signature on the marriage license will make their marriage official in matters of the law, and her mother’s blessing—whom Queenie calls Old Sally like everybody else—will make it official everywhere else. Heaven included.
“Did you do the things I suggested?” Violet continues to fiddle with the vexing zipper.
Queenie thinks for a minute. “You mean about wishing on a new moon? Yes, I did that a few days ago. I also said ‘rabbit’ first thing before getting out of bed on the first day of the month. I’ll take all the good luck I can get.”
“You didn’t happen to dream of gray horses last night, did you?” Violet asks. “That’s supposed to be good luck, too.”
“Not that I remember,” Queenie says. “I think I dreamed I was at the Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-thru in Savannah. The one Iris went to. In the dream, I drove up to that little window and picked up a live chicken instead of a cooked one.”
Violet laughs before stepping back to take another look at Queenie’s dress. “Not to worry. As far as I know, dreaming of live chickens is not bad luck.”
Queenie’s cheeks flush hot thinking of how she denied herself and Violet the relationship they could have had for all those years when Queenie was hiding the fact that she was Violet’s mother. It is easily the biggest regret of her life. They have always been close. But being mother and daughter feels different from being an aunt and niece. Looking back on it, she realizes now that if she could do it over, she would have told the truth, no matter how angry Oscar might have been or how much she might have feared the outcome. As Iris’s husband and Queenie’s employer, Oscar had a lot of power over her and took advantage of it.
Thankfully, Queenie no longer has a need for secret-keeping. She wants to shout to the world her love for the one man she’s waited her entire life to find: Spud Grainger. A retired butcher from the Piggly Wiggly. Retired thanks to Iris’s surprising generosity in her will. Denzel Washington he is not. For one thing, he is about ten shades lighter than Denzel. In other words, he is white to Queenie’s black. But life seldom works out as planned.
The zipper finally closed, Queenie and Violet share a mother-daughter sigh of relief. When Queenie turns to the mirror to have a look, her mood shifts like the weather vane on the back porch when a storm is coming in.
“Oh, Violet, who am I kidding by wearing white? It’s not like a person can revert back to virgin-hood, even if it was thirty years between dates.”
“You look beautiful,” Violet reassures her.
They stand at the mirror as if taking in the family resemblance.
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve happiness like this.” Queenie lowers her head.
“Don’t say things like that,” Violet says. “You deserve happiness as much as anybody. Maybe more, given you put up with Iris Temple for thirty-five years. For that, you probably deserve lifelong happiness and a medal.”
Queenie walks to the front window, Violet following, and then delivers another sigh as she looks out over the ocean from the second floor. “Maybe Iris was my penance for not being truthful while you were growing up.”
“Listen to me.” Violet looks into her eyes. “You have waited a long time to be happy, Queenie Temple, and I will not let anyone take this moment away from you. Especially not you. I know you don’t think you deserve anything like this, but you do,” she continues. “Spud makes you happy. In fact, this last year is the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”
Queenie wipes away a plump tear before giving Violet a hug.
“Thank you for that,” Queenie says. “Everybody needs a good talking-to now and again.” Queenie stands taller, grateful that Violet feels she can be honest with her.
“I can’t believe you went to the Piggly Wiggly with Miss Temple all those years and never even noticed Spud,” Violet says.
“Well, he was Iris’s old flame, and nobody in their right mind messed with Iris.”
They exchange a knowing look.
“Well, I bet wherever Miss Temple is, she’s happy for you, too,” Violet says.
Queenie turns to look at the overhead light and waits on the ghost of Iris Temple to disagree like she did in the old mansion when her spirit shook the chandeliers. Blissful silence answers her. Queenie has not missed her half sister’s haunting presence one bit. Or any of the other ghosts in the Temple mansion, for that matter, who for years gave her the shivers in cold hallways and various rooms of that old house. But it is quite a stretch to imagine Iris happy for her. Iris was notably the most stubborn, controlling matriarch in Savannah, if not the entire Southeast.
“Everything is going too well, Vi. I’m worried something will happen to ruin this day.”
“Relax,” Violet says. “Nothing is going to go wrong.”
“But what if the Temple ghosts find out I’m marrying Spud?”
“Don’t be silly,” Violet says. “Those ghosts are long gone.” But she doesn’t look entirely convinced.
If Queenie had to imagine the worst news she could receive on her wedding day, it would be that the one ghost in Savannah she had hoped to sweet Jesus she had rid herself of had returned. A ghost by the name of Iris. A ghost who was once in love with Queenie’s intended.
For years Queenie accompanied Iris to the meat section of the Piggly Wiggly, watching her practically marinate all over Spud while at the same time rejecting him. Queenie wasn’t sure what game Iris was playing, but it didn’t seem fair to Spud. A man Queenie didn’t give a second look back then is now a different story.
Queenie begins to pace, imagining every catastrophe that can befall two people getting married.
“Have you and Mama put a protection spell on the wedding?”
“We did spells earlier in the week,” Violet says, giving the dress another tug to test its hold.
In the last year, Queenie has found Violet and her mama conjuring up all sorts of awful-smelling things on the kitchen stove. Concoctions that could ward off anything bad within a hundred miles by smell alone. But at this moment Queenie is glad her family tradition includes folk magic and getting rid of any unwanted evil. If that isn’t a description of Iris, she isn’t sure what is.
After Old Sally passes from this world, Violet will be the keeper of the Gullah secrets. Secrets Queenie has never had any desire to know. The family sensitivity skipped a generation, and Queenie is okay with that. The truth is, she has neither the temperament nor desire to deal with mysterious forces.
Queenie glances at the clock on her bedside table. Guests will arrive in less than an hour. In the meantime, everything has been planned and is in the process of being executed. Old Sally will be the one to give Queenie away and walk with her down the aisle. For months Queenie worried that her mama might not get to attend the wedding. When someone is a centenarian, you figure their days are numbered. But for weeks now Queenie has shoved that thought to the back of her mind with all the other worst-case scenarios.
“In one hour, you will be Mrs. Spud Grainger,” Violet says.
“Maybe people should call me Mrs. Potato Head since I’m marrying a Spud.” Queenie’s laughter tests the strength of her zipper.
Violet laughs, too, something Queenie has seen her do more often these last few months. Ever since she opened her tea shop, Violet has possessed a level of contentment that Queenie has never seen before. It is as if Violet has finally stepped into the role she was meant to play.
Queenie scrutinizes herself in the mirror once again. “There’s something off,” she says.
“I told you, you look beautiful,” Violet says.
Queenie pauses, taking in her reflection until her eyes widen. “I’ve got it,” she says. “There isn’t
an ounce of color in this whole outfit. Wearing all this white, I look like a milk chocolate Disney princess. That will not do.”
Violet insists this isn’t true, which only prompts another angst-filled sigh before Queenie begins to pace again, unconvinced.
“Why am I trying to look all traditional? I’ve never been traditional a day in my life. I don’t look one bit like myself,” Queenie says, thinking, Oprah would not approve. Seeing all this white in the mirror makes her feel like one of Rose’s bare-white canvases.
“You’re just a little nervous,” Violet says.
Queenie pauses. “I need a dash of color,” she says.
“A dash of color?” Violet’s brows raise as if she thinks that a dash of anything would never be enough for Queenie. If Sam’s Club sold color in bulk, Queenie would bring it home by the truckload.
Queenie steps into her walk-in closet, her billowing white gown refusing to clear the door. When she breaches the doorway, she nearly falls headfirst into her shoes. When they were designing this addition, she gave up bathroom footage to add more room for storage. The Temple mansion in Savannah, where she used to live, had absurdly tiny closets for such a prominent home.
“Almost there,” she says to Violet, who holds Queenie’s dress out behind her to keep it from getting wrinkled.
Inside her closet, Queenie ties a bright yellow silk scarf around her neck. Then she trades out her white sequined dressy flats for a pair of purple pumps. Yet, there is still something missing. Queenie sifts through her closet until she finds a large round box containing a hat she has never dared to wear. And for Queenie that is saying a lot. It is bold and big and red. Is now the time to debut it? Or in this case, add it to the veil she already intends to wear? It is a silly notion, she admits, but Queenie is desperate for some color.
For months Queenie planned a traditional wedding like the ones in those wedding magazines. An event meant to finally make her acceptable, in her own eyes and others. Now she is considering wearing a hat that would make even the characters in Steel Magnolias balk. The color of fire engines and emergency exits, the wide drooping brim makes her look like a deeply suntanned southern belle.
With Violet’s help, Queenie successfully breaches the closet door again, and carefully positions the hat on her head while looking in the mirror.
“Perfect,” she says, beaming a smile at Violet.
Violet’s initial shock appears to soften. Queenie is now adorned in color.
To calm her nervousness, Queenie takes a deep breath followed by a slow exhale. In less than an hour, she will marry Spud Grainger, the only man in her six decades of life that she has ever truly loved. Nobody and nothing will prevent her destiny.
CHAPTER THREE
Rose
Coming home to Savannah, where she grew up, and now living on Dolphin Island with her chosen family has been good for Rose. She hadn’t realized how much she missed shade and moisture until she returned from living in Wyoming. Growing up as a Temple meant Rose grew up facing a lot of expectations. She wasn’t anything like her mother—the great and formidable Iris Temple—and every day of her life Rose was aware of how disappointed her mother was in her. But with her mother gone, life seems easier here.
Rose and Violet were up most of the night with preparations for Queenie and Spud’s wedding reception. Rose coordinated the event: invitations, flowers, rentals, and helping Queenie find a gown. After Queenie finally decided what kind of ceremony she wanted—a decision process that took months—Rose had only six weeks to get everything arranged. Now Violet is helping Queenie with her dress.
Arranging a wedding is what she had hoped she and her daughter Katie might do together someday. But it seems that isn’t meant to be. Though it has entered a new millennium, the world needs to do a lot of changing for Katie and her girlfriend Angela to get married. Rose doesn’t have that level of faith in humanity. Not after the events of last year on September 11.
To stop Spud Grainger’s hand-wringing and pacing, Rose gives him a dozen lemons to cut for fresh lemonade. He stands at the granite kitchen counter in front of the cutting board, wearing a purple suit. It never occurred to her that he might need some direction on appropriate wedding attire, but she imagines Queenie will love it.
“Have you talked to Queenie today?” Rose asks Spud.
“She has forbidden it,” Spud says, a smile upon his mustached lips.
Rose imagines a romantic relationship with Queenie would require a certain amount of willingness to take orders.
Good for him, she thinks. Now if only Max could learn that, too.
The cordless telephone rings in the kitchen. Considering the household living situation, Rose never knows how to answer. Lately, she identifies herself and then hopes the caller knows who to ask for.
“Rose, this is Regina. Edward’s wife.”
Her missing fingertip throbs in recognition upon hearing her brother’s name.
Rose has only talked to Regina once on the telephone since they met last summer at the Temple Garden, a park created by the city where her family’s mansion once stood. For decades, Edward kept Regina a secret from their family. A fact that seems poignant to Rose. Has Regina somehow found out about Queenie’s wedding and wants to know the whereabouts of her invitation?
They exchange pleasantries, and then Regina’s tone grows more serious. “I called to warn you about something,” she says.
“Warn me?” Rose sits on a nearby stool, ready for bad news.
The room filled with the puckering smell of cut lemons, Spud has overheard and looks at Rose.
Everything has gone so well with the wedding preparations, Rose has anticipated a giant shoe poised to drop. From the sound of Regina’s voice, this call might be it.
“I had an unexpected visitor last night,” Regina says. “A young woman.” She pauses.
Is her brother’s widow the type to dangle a disaster in her face? Perhaps she is more like Edward than Rose initially thought.
“The young woman claims to be Edward’s daughter,” Regina says.
In her imagination, Rose hears a shoe drop with a thud onto the slate kitchen floor. Somehow, Rose knew her brother would find a way to mess with her life even from the grave.
“Edward has a daughter?” Rose asks.
“It seems so.” Regina exhales as though smoking a cigarette. She doesn’t seem the type to smoke. Rose has an easier time imagining her at the gym seven days a week. Maybe both things are true.
When Rose asks Regina for details, she obliges. The young woman, whose name is Heather, showed up at Edward’s penthouse in Atlanta, where Regina still lives, and announced she was looking for her father.
“It’s hard to imagine Edward a father,” Rose says.
Regina’s laugh is short and unexpected. “I know what you mean. It always surprised me that he could keep an orchid alive.”
Orchids? Rose can’t envision her brother tending to anything except maybe the stock market. Of course, he didn’t seem the type to marry an African-American woman, either. The truth is, she doubts she even knew her brother at all.
Regina pauses and exhales again. Rose can almost smell the burning tobacco.
“It seems Heather’s mother was an employee of his for a brief time,” Regina begins again. “Twenty-two years ago, Edward gave the mother enough money to get rid of her, as well as abort the baby. But it seems she decided to keep it and raised the child by herself,” she continues. “The mother died recently, and the daughter is now looking for her biological father. Namely, guess who?”
“Did you tell her he died in a fire two years ago?” Rose asks.
“She didn’t seem surprised by the news,” Regina says.
Rose pauses. Why would the young woman go looking for Edward if she knew about the fire? Something doesn’t make sense.
“She kept her father’s last name?” Rose asks.
“Yes,” Regina says. “Her mother was smart enough to list Edward’s name on the birth certifi
cate. Heather has a copy with her, but who knows if the thing is real. There are all sorts of cons out there these days, you know.” Regina exhales again.
Could Edward have had a secret daughter? He certainly had a secret wife that nobody knew about. The Temple family is steeped in secrets. Not only do they have their own fair share, but they have collected them for over two hundred years to blackmail the citizens of Savannah whenever they needed to boost their influence. There are two ledgers full of secrets, it turns out, though Rose hasn’t made time to explore the second.
Phone in hand, Rose walks over to the sunroom and Old Sally’s table filled with all the objects that represent the people she watches over, Rose being one of them. The key to the second safe-deposit box is right where she left it.
Perhaps it’s time to go see what’s in that second book, Rose tells herself.
At the very least, she can see what it contains before destroying it. Somehow the world would seem better off if someone finally laid all those secrets to rest. But first, she needs to get through Queenie’s wedding.
Regina is silent like a fisherman slowly moving bait through the water to fool the fish into thinking it doesn’t have a hook. But Rose refuses to bite.
“Thank you for warning me,” she says, “but I need to get busy here. We’re—”
“Wait,” Regina says, “there’s more.”
“More?” Rose doesn’t have time for more. She also doesn’t have time to figure out Regina’s motives.
“Heather visited again this morning,” Regina says. “I gave her your address. She left here about fifteen minutes ago, heading in your direction.”
“You gave her my address?” Rose returns to the kitchen, where Spud is up to his elbows in lemons. “Why would you do that without asking me first?”
“Is there a problem?” Regina’s voice reveals a slight lift. Is she smiling?
“We’ve got a lot happening here today,” Rose says, thinking this is the understatement of the century. A short century so far, since it is only 2002.
Gullah Secrets Page 2