“How are you doing?”
“I’m lovely, thank you. We are having a few problems getting ready for tonight, though.” The paper-thin wrinkle on her forehead creased a tad further. “Kitzi, I’ve asked the driver to keep the tent six feet from the flower beds. That way people won’t be forced into them if they walk around the tent.”
“Excellent idea.”
She looked down at the paper on her clipboard. “I have also told him that I expect someone to replace the damaged plants by two this afternoon.” She dropped her voice and leaned closer to us. “It’s early enough that if the plants don’t arrive, we can do the replacing before the opening cocktail party this evening.”
My mother is half terrier and half Dresden doll. She can be so precious and petite, I can’t help feeling protective. And I’ve seen her terrify a whole crew of burly workmen. Come to think of it, she’s done that to me, too. It’s when she wants everything to be “nice.” Her nice stands for absolutely-no-kidding-downright perfect. An impossible standard she demands of herself and the rest of us. I try to disappear when she’s in one of those moods—not to protect myself, but to keep family harmony.
“I’ll pick up some flowers while I’m out,” I said.
She noticed the keys dangling from my fingers and frowned. “You can’t possibly think of leaving right now. The caterers will be arriving, and the chairs and tables are going to be delivered. There are a thousand things to be done.”
For the moment, everything we could do was already taken care of, but apparently she was in one of her moods. I should have been tipped off by the clipboard. “Mother, don’t worry. Several of the women from the OCO will be here shortly. Plus the volunteers from the Bead Society. They’re in charge of this.” OCO is the Ovarian Cancer Organization, the official sponsors of the Bead Tea.
“Kitzi, it is our responsibility to be here and help.”
“I won’t be gone long; I just need to run out and see a lawyer.”
“What lawyer? And why in the world would you schedule an appointment today?”
“Something just came up. It’s for Houston.” My mother is a sucker for Houston, as are most older women. Especially his mother, my aunt Miranda, who always says that he is the light of her existence. When we were kids and she said it, I always thought he was a pretty dim bulb and she must live in a cave, but I never said it out loud. Well, maybe once or twice to Houston, but never to her.
“Is he all right?” my mother asked. “He’s not hurt—”
“Nothing like that. Just some legal thing with some silly deadline.” I was not going to let my mother worry about Houston taking over the Manse. If I loved the Manse, she obsessed over it. Six years ago, when the doctor told her that she needed to turn it over to someone else because it was killing her, she was devastated. As tough as it was on her, though, she did it all in her own inimitable style.
The Manse is actually owned by a family corporation created by my grandfather. Every member of the family is a stockholder, and provisions were made for new members who joined the clan either by birth or marriage. Divorce is figured in, too. I don’t understand the numbers of voting shares or the percentages, but that’s never been an issue. It certainly wasn’t the day my mother gave up residency.
She’d had her lawyer send out meeting notices to all the family members, and everyone showed up as if it were a funeral. There were canapés and drinks for all, until it was time to call the gathering to order. Mother did that, proud and as tall as she could stand at the head of the table. She explained that she could no longer care for the house and she was ready to turn it over to someone else. There was no self-pity; I was the one feeling teary eyed. As I looked around the room, several others seemed sad, too, although one or two seemed eager.
Then Mother pulled out a stack of bound presentation folders and passed them around for all of us to see. It was an inventory of the contents of the house, and the results of an inspection. I skimmed through the papers, as did the others. Muttering started and expressions turned to surprise. Even I was stunned.
Oh, I knew the house needed a coat of paint and some other things, but I was so used to seeing it that I just didn’t notice. That inspection brought reality crashing down on all our heads.
According to the report there was a serious foundation problem that had caused cracks in the walls and had jammed many of the windows. The plumbing was rotting. The water was not up to drinkable standards, and there were leaks inside some walls. The leaks had caused mold, and the old aluminum wiring was considered a fire hazard.
Those were just the major problems.
All in all, the cost for repairs was so high that the corporation didn’t have the funds to cover it. People started muttering. Uncle Larry, the senator, said, “How reliable is the company that did the inspection?”
“Very reliable,” my mother responded. She sighed but her head remained unbowed. “I’ve been fighting these problems for years, but there’s never been enough time or money to get it all done. I’m afraid one of you has some work in your future.”
Except one by one they all declined. No one wanted to spend that much of their own funds on the Manse. Some didn’t have the money, and others didn’t want to part with it. Some lived away from Austin, and the remaining few didn’t want the responsibility. In the end it came down to my brother and me. Stephen was rubbing his forehead, thinking hard. At that point in his life he was going through a divorce, his second, and I knew that money was tight.
He dropped his shoulders in defeat. “I decline.” He looked at my mother. “I’m sorry, Mom, I just can’t.”
She nodded, then turned to me. A quote, I think from Dale Carnegie, kept running through my head: “If it’s to be done, you are the one.”
I loved the Manse, but I had my own house that I’d recently remodeled after my kids had gone off to college. It was fresh and sparkling, with the peace and tranquility that comes when the workmen finally leave.
I had looked at my mother and seen the hopeful expression on her face.
“Lillian,” my uncle asked, “where will you go if you leave the Manse?”
She hesitated and finally said, “I’ve been looking at houses, but I’ve finally come to the conclusion that an apartment might be best. Or a duplex.”
That had been the deciding factor. My mother had dedicated her entire life to others, and I was not going to let her spend her senior years in an apartment with a sea of asphalt parking lot around her and some rapper upstairs blowing out his speakers.
“I’ll take over the Manse,” I said, stepping toward the conference table. “You can move into the gatehouse, Mother. We’ll remodel it first, so you have somewhere nice to live.”
Everyone cheered, grateful that they hadn’t gotten stuck with the job. Or the Manse. The bar was reopened, and I was toasted repeatedly.
Within days I was hard at work, selling my house, finding a contractor, making up plans for modernizing, all the while letting my training business slip because of all the time it took.
I wrangled with carpenters, plumbers, and electricians to keep it architecturally authentic, while making sure it was sound and functioning smoothly. I fought off termites, black mold, and the city council that wanted to “annex” half the grounds for some electrical substation. I even cleaned almost every inch of it on my hands and knees.
In the end it was all worth it. The Manse is now beautifully restored, and I’ve added modern conveniences to boot. The kitchen isn’t up to par appearancewise yet, but it will be eventually. We’ve turned the gatehouse into a little charmer. Before it had been nothing more than a large toolshed with a small mudroom. Some of the walls hadn’t even been finished. Now it is elegant and charming. There are pegged hardwood floors, a fireplace, a small but colorful kitchen, a spa bath, and a brick patio out back. We’ve put up window boxes and added a flower-bordered walkway from the front gate. Mother and I did much of the planting and decorating together. She calls it her nest, and I could
n’t stand the thought of her losing it.
Which is why I had to get moving. I’d bet my hormone pills that if Houston got the Manse my mother would be out of the gatehouse and looking for a place to live before her next phone bill was due. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“Who is this lawyer?” Mother asked.
“His name was Warrington, I think. No, it’s Harrington.”
“Not Edward Harrington?” She suddenly looked wary.
“I don’t think so,” I said, only because it seemed important to reassure her. “Why? Do you know an Edward Harrington?”
“A little. From years ago when your father was in office. But how can you go see the man if you can’t remember his name?”
“I have his address written down,” I said, waving my purse. “Mother, don’t worry. Everything is under control. Really. Tell her, Beth.”
Before Beth could speak my mother said, “Beth, maybe you can talk some sense into Kitzi.”
“It would be a first,” Beth said. “I could chauffeur her, though, which might get her back faster.”
“Is that fast?” My mother looked at Beth’s red PT Cruiser and shook her head. “I would think it’s a little young for you, but you’re going through a trying time.”
“We’ll hurry,” I called over my shoulder as I moved toward the driveway. “I have my cell phone if you need me.”
“Guess she didn’t like my car,” Beth said, popping on the oversized glasses and climbing into the Cruiser.
“As we’ve noted before, she’s a tad more conservative than we are. Don’t take it personally.”
“I don’t. So where am I taking you?”
“We’re going to see Houston and wreak some havoc.”
“My kind of day.”
Three
I spent most of the trip to Houston’s office trying to explain to Beth the shares and how they are voted in the corporation that actually owns the Manse.
“You don’t really understand yourself, do you?” Beth asked when we pulled into the parking lot.
“No. But I can explain the Electoral College and how that came into being.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Well . . .” I said, looking up at the plain-Jane, white building. It’s on a hillside across from Pease Park in what used to be near the center of Austin. “Here’s the deal. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, come in and get me.”
“Why? Will Houston be holding you captive?”
“No, but I could be seriously hurting him.”
“Then I’m coming in.” Beth got out of the car.
“Okay, but if I start throwing things, you better duck. My aim isn’t what it used to be.”
We went up the cracked concrete staircase, then through the doors into his office, where things were dramatically different. The receptionist’s desk was made of polished mahogany, dark and rich looking, like the office of someone important. Behind her was a panel of the same wood with an inset of etched glass, but the kicker was the rug. It was a hand-knotted Mashad, a good ten feet by twelve in a shimmering cranberry red with a design of cream and faded turquoise. I’m not an expert on oriental rugs, but the Mashad had been in the front hall of the Manse when I was a kid and my mother was big on having us appreciate the beautiful things around us. When it was decided that my parents would take over the house, they had insisted that Aunt Miranda take the Mashad and some of her other favorite furnishings.
Ridiculous though it might be, it still galled me that some of them had made their way here.
“Can I help you?” the young woman at the front desk asked. She was not anyone I’d seen before, nor was she dressed like anyone I’d seen around here before.
Austin is casual; you can wear jeans to everything including your own funeral. This woman was not in jeans. She was wearing an ivory crepe pantsuit with a string of small creamy pearls at her throat. Her dark hair was down and straight. The Mashad of receptionists.
“Yes, you can help me,” I said. “I need to see Houston Webber.”
“Certainly. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t. I’m Kitzi Camden and I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that he’s expecting me.”
Not only did she not recognize my last name, which in Texas is in every history textbook, but she also didn’t get my joke. “He’s very busy today; may I make an appointment for tomorrow?”
“Won’t be convenient,” I said.
“Perhaps next week?”
“Not to worry, I’ll just pop in on him.” I stepped around the panel behind her and saw four doors.
“You can’t go back there!”
“Of course I can. I just did.” I heard voices behind the door on my right and started in that direction.
“There’s a meeting—you can’t—”
I stopped and asked quite reasonably, “Then where is Houston?”
A door that had been ajar opened and Houston stepped through. “Kitzi Camden. My favorite cousin!” He was tallish and slim, with sleek, prematurely gray hair. His smile showed off his teeth, and he had his arms open as if he were going to hug me.
“Houston,” I said, keeping well back from him, “we need to talk.”
He looked at the young woman. “Lauren, I’d like to introduce you to my cousin.” He stepped forward and tried to put an arm around me, but I dodged. He went on, “I’m sure you’ve heard me mention her, the infamous Katherine Camden. She was senator here in Texas.”
“Yes, of course.” Lauren’s annoyance fell away and she smiled, back to lovely and gracious. Houston has a lot of flaws, but he somehow has the smarts to surround himself with exceptional women. “How do you do, Ms. Camden?” she said.
“Fine, and thank you for asking,” I said. “This is my friend, Beth Fairfield. Houston, I’m sure you remember Beth.”
“Of course.” He shook her hand, looking happy, maybe because someone was willing to touch him. “So, Kitzi, shall you and I go into my office? This won’t take but a moment, Lauren.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Beth, you come along, too.”
“Maybe we should—” Houston began.
“Have a witness,” I finished for him. “I couldn’t agree more.”
He didn’t take us back to the room he’d been in, but to the one next door, obviously his office, since there were pictures of him and his wife, Rebecca, on the carved credenza behind the desk. Rebecca is the primary exceptional woman in his life.
Now, I’m not an expert on offices. However, my own, which I call the epicenter of my empire, was originally designed to be British Colonial, but it has evolved into a hard-work area with too many papers, too many cords, and too many files.
Houston’s space doesn’t appear to have evolved at all. It was still an elegant Ralph Lauren gentlemen’s office in mahogany, hunter green, and navy blue. There were no papers, although he did have a computer. One of those slick little silver models often compared to executive jewelry.
Once Beth and I were seated in the client chairs, Houston took his rightful spot behind the massive desk and leaned forward. “Miss Kitzi, what brings you to my humble offices?”
“Well, Houston, why do you think I came here?”
He smiled. “Now, Kitzi, the last thing I want to do is rile you,” he said with a smile. “It’s about the Manse, isn’t it? I’m so sorry that we didn’t get to talk before Edward called you. It’s just been chaotic.”
A phone call would have taken five minutes, and he’d had a fair amount of time to do it, since Edward Harrington claimed he’d sent me the letter two weeks ago. I wasn’t buying it.
“Bottom line,” I said, “is that you want me out of the Manse, and you’ve got the votes to make it happen.”
“Oh, Kitzi, you’re my favorite cousin,” he said like he really meant it. “And I’ve hurt your feelings. That was the last thing I wanted to do.”
My daughter used to make gagging sounds when I said things she wasn’t buying, and I thought n
ow was an appropriate time to make one myself, but I held back.
“My feelings are just fine, thank you,” I said.
“Now, Kitz,” Houston went on, “you know that Grandfather was a man who believed in fairness, and he loved his family. All of us. Your side of the family has enjoyed living in the Manse ever since he passed away—”
“At the request of your side of the family. And we’ve paid all the taxes and all the upkeep and improvements.”
“You’ve been wonderful caretakers of the family tradition.”
Beth was watching us patiently waiting for something to happen, but I kept my composure.
“Thank you,” I said, more politely than I wanted to. “However, you make us sound like pirates, or squatters, which we both know isn’t so. When my mother begged for someone to take over the place, I noticed that you didn’t jump up and volunteer.”
“And you were glad I didn’t.”
“Wrong. I didn’t want to leave my house, which if you’ll remember, I had just finished remodeling. My business suffered a huge setback because I had to plunk a whole lot of time into the Manse.”
“So now I’m ready to step up and take my turn at the Manse,” Houston said. This man went in more circles than a merry-go-round. “I’ll take the burden off of you—”
“Don’t give me bullshit, Houston.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beth grinning.
Houston leaned forward earnestly. “Kitzi, it’s really for Rebecca. You know the statistics on ovarian cancer.” I surely did: three to five hard years and no cure. Ever. “I’m doing this for Rebecca.”
“Houston, if I believed that I’d start packing tomorrow.”
When Rebecca and Houston married, they moved into his house, which we all called Tudor Hacienda. Nice neighborhood, ugly house. Rebecca had turned it into a Mediterranean showplace, with an enclosed courtyard, fountains, and lush gardens. She loved that house with well-earned pride, and I’d never heard her say a word that made me think she’d want to leave it.
Beads of Doubt Page 2