The Peach Keeper

by Sarah Addison Allen

  “Get what?” Colin asked, his head back against the cushions, his eyes closed.

  She tried to mimic his position but couldn’t get comfortable. “Mama adores you. Daddy isn’t trying to make you play golf anymore. And still you can’t wait to get away.”

  “You should know this better than anyone, Pax. It takes a lot of energy to keep up that deflector shield.”

  “If you moved back, you wouldn’t have to eat dinner with them every night. I do because I live with them. You’d have your own place.”

  “I know.”

  “When are you moving back?” she asked. “You don’t have to live in New York for work. This could be your home base.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.”

  “Ready for what? To be here for your family? Gee, Colin, it must be nice to be you.” She had no idea why she was picking a fight with him. He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t even the real reason she was upset.

  “I’m here now, aren’t I? You asked me, I’m here.”

  “For a month.”

  His chest rose as he took a deep breath of calming air. “I’m tired, Pax. I don’t want to fight with you.”

  Her brother never slept well. That, at least, was something they had in common. “I don’t, either. I’m sorry.”

  The crickets made up for their lack of conversation for a while. Clouds were rolling in, dimming the light as they passed over the moon, making it seem like a power surge. Paxton could feel her emotions mirrored in the sky. Bright surges of happiness. Dark periods of moodiness.

  Paxton finally said, “It’s Willa Jackson you’re taking to the gala, isn’t it?”

  “I’m working on it,” he said with a smile. He turned his head on the cushion to look at her. “What about you? Who are you going with?”

  Before last week, before the kiss, she would have said Sebastian. But now she wasn’t so sure. He’d volunteered at the free clinic over the weekend, but now it was Tuesday, and she still hadn’t heard from him, even after leaving him an apologetic message today. She didn’t like being apart from him. It left a hole in her life she didn’t know how to fill, because he’d been her best friend, her only friend. But how could she look him in the eye after what happened, after knowing, definitively, that he could never give her what she’d wanted so much, what she’d wanted all her life? For a moment, she envied her brother’s nice, untangled life. For a moment, she understood why he stayed away.

  “I think I might go alone,” she said. “There will be too much to do for me to pay attention to a date, anyway.”

  “I’ll be your date,” he offered.

  “No, get Willa to come. She should be there for her grandmother.” Paxton paused. “Willa was at the tree planting today. Did you see her?”

  “Yes, I saw her,” he said. “I invited her to come.”

  Paxton gnawed at her bottom lip. “So you two … talk?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I guess she told you all about what happened Friday night.”

  “No, actually,” he said. “I asked. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  That surprised her. “She didn’t tell you anything?”

  He lifted his head. “I’m getting the same impression from you that I got from her. Is there more than one secret? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  Colin sighed and turned his face back up to the spotty moonlight. “That’s what she said.”

  Late that night, Sebastian sat in the back booth of the quiet, sagging Happy Daze Diner on the highway and nursed a cup of coffee, just like he used to do when he was a teenager. The only difference now was that he didn’t have a satchel of books to read well into the night.

  Well, that and he was better dressed and wasn’t wearing eyeliner.

  His father had been an alcoholic, so Sebastian spent every hour he could away from him. He would sit at this diner on the highway, the one his great-aunt used to take him to when he was a boy, the only place she could afford, and nurse a cup of coffee and read library books until he was too tired to stay awake, then he would go home and sleep on a couch on the porch, just so he wouldn’t have to face his father and his verbal abuse. He called Sebastian a fag a lot, particularly when he was drinking. Then Sebastian would get up and go to school, and hear much of the same.

  “Hey, baby,” Lois said, coming to a stop at his booth in the back. “I thought you might like some pie.”

  Sebastian smiled at her. Lois had been a waitress here since he was little. She was a wiry old woman, with painted-on lips and a crooked blond wig. She and another older lady were the only two waitresses in the place, and they wore blue polyester dresses and frilly white aprons. The place had few customers, and most were over the age of seventy. They didn’t pay any attention to him. No one bothered him here, which was why this had been such a safe haven. He’d thought he’d outgrown this, but it turned out he’d been wrong.

  “I’m not hungry, Lois. But thank you.”

  “Eat it,” she said, sliding the plate on the table. “You’re still too skinny. Can’t hide it with those fancy suits, either.”

  She walked away, her orthopedic shoes squeaking on the cracked linoleum floors. Pie, to Lois, was love. And Sebastian appreciated it. The moment he’d walked back in a few months ago, he and Lois had found their old routine. She still tried to feed him. He still refused. She still let him stay as late as he wanted to. Only these days he could afford to tip her a lot more.

  He pushed the pie plate to the side, then looked at his cellphone sitting next to his coffee cup.

  He picked it up and listened to Paxton’s message again.

  “Hi, Sebastian. It’s me. I haven’t seen you in a few days.” She paused. She was on her cellphone, probably in her car. He could hear the subtle whoosh of traffic. Engine noises. She drove like she did everything else, with confidence and purpose, multitasking along the way. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything. For Friday night. For not calling you when I got drunk and needed help. You’re off the hook if you don’t want to go to the luncheon and recital on Saturday. I know you don’t like classical music and were only going for me, anyway. Just … call me and let me know you’re okay. Bye.”

  He set the phone back down next to his coffee.

  Paxton Osgood was the last thing he’d expected to happen to him when he came back to Walls of Water. It had taken a lot of courage to come back here, but he’d been convinced that finding out about Dr. Kostovo’s retirement had been a sign. From the get-go he had blatantly insinuated himself in circles that had previously rejected him. Those who remembered him perhaps still looked at him oddly, but he’d slid into place so easily. More easily than he’d ever expected. No one said he didn’t belong, which was exactly what he’d wanted. Yet it felt nothing like he’d thought it would. He’d been prepared to face what he’d left behind armed with bitterness and haughtiness, only to find there weren’t any battles left to fight here. There were only his memories of a confused and neglected little boy, who was too skinny and too pretty for his father to love, who was made fun of by the other kids and misunderstood by everyone. So no, no battles. Only ghosts.

  And Paxton.

  He’d couched his sexuality a long time ago. It only got in the way, the dissonance between what he was and how he was perceived. And he didn’t think the issue would come up when he first met Paxton. They’d hit it off right away, and Paxton quickly became his friend, which in itself wasn’t much of a surprise. Women often wanted to be his friend, as if friendship with him was something of a trophy. What was surprising was how earnest Paxton was about it, how terribly grateful she was. She’d latched on to him as though she’d been wandering the desert and he was her oasis. And he had to admit it felt good to be her confidant. She was the town’s golden girl, she had everything, and he was the one she chose to confide in. But the longer they knew each other, the more comfortable she became in expressing affection, and he slowly began to realize she was feeling more than j
ust friendship. His own feelings confused him, but then, they always confused him. He didn’t know how to address what was happening between them, and since she avoided the subject, he’d assumed this was just temporary, and they carried on like normal.

  Until that night at her house.

  He took a deep breath, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

  She’d been on edge. Tired. She immediately regretted it.

  That should have been it, right? But if she regretted it, and he wanted to move on from it, why were they dancing around each other? Why was she telling him he didn’t have to go to social functions with her now? Why was he here, avoiding her?

  Did she think she couldn’t keep her hands off him?

  Or was it the other way around?

  He’d never expected to face this. He thought coming back here would put to bed a lot of old issues. And it had. But it had also opened up a whole new set of issues he’d convinced himself five years ago that he would never have to face again.

  And he had no idea what to do now.

  TEN

  The Magic Man

  Late Friday afternoon, Paxton couldn’t take it anymore. She had to go see Willa. Why was she keeping quiet? Was she planning on using all she knew against Paxton at a later date? Between the drunken altercation at the Gas Me Up, Paxton’s confession about Sebastian, and, most of all, Nana Osgood’s outburst, the potential for public embarrassment was enormous, and that was the last thing she needed right now, more scandal surrounding the Madam. How did she end up so beholden to a woman she barely even knew?

  Paxton drove into Willa’s neighborhood and parked behind her Jeep. She straightened her shoulders and marched to the door and knocked. It was still light, and the scent of summer dinners being prepared wafted through the air—sliced tomatoes, freshly popped beans, the sharp tang of charcoal. When Willa opened the door, the contrast between the two of them couldn’t have been more obvious. Willa was comfortable and casual in jeans and a high-waisted shirt that looked like it was made out of large bandana squares. Paxton was in a beige sheath dress and tailored jacket that she sprayed regularly throughout the day with a wrinkle releaser.

  “Paxton,” Willa said, surprised. “Come in.”

  “I was worried you wouldn’t be here,” Paxton said as she stepped inside and Willa closed the door behind her.

  “I’m always here on Friday night. Friday night is vacuuming night. The fun never ends at Casa Jackson.”

  Paxton adjusted the tote bag on her shoulder. “Then what were you doing out last Friday?”

  “I was at a cookout I hadn’t intended to go to.”

  Lucky for me. Paxton took a deep breath and got to the point. “Listen, Colin told me he asked you about what happened last Friday, and that you refused to tell him. He also doesn’t seem to know about Nana Osgood’s confession.” She hesitated. “I thought you’d tell him. I’ve been waiting for you to tell everyone.”

  Willa’s brows knitted. “Why would I do that?”

  “It’s been my experience that people take a little more joy than they should when things don’t go my way.”

  “Well, when Colin didn’t seem to be aware that the police had asked me about my grandmother, I figured we were on the same page. How do we know what really happened, anyway?” Willa asked.

  “You’re right. We don’t know,” Paxton said, relieved. “But for what it’s worth, I think it’s absurd that Georgie had anything to do with that skeleton. I’ve always liked your grandmother.” There was a knowing silence. “That’s okay, I know you can’t say the same about mine.”

  Willa gave her an apologetic smile.

  Paxton looked around awkwardly. There were boxes in the living room that hadn’t been here last week. Her eyes immediately fell on a beautiful gray dress that was draped over one of the boxes. The fabric was beaded and looked like it was covered in twinkling stars. She stepped over to it and touched it with the reverence only someone who knew the true power of dresses could have.

  “This is gorgeous. Is it vintage?” It had to be. It had the tight bustier, cinched waist, and wide skirt of something from the early 1950s.

  Willa nodded. “It’s apparently from 1954. It still has its tags. And it was in the original box with the card attached. It was a Christmas gift from your grandmother to mine. She kept it all this time but never wore it.”

  “They really were good friends, weren’t they?” Paxton said, still staring at the dress.

  “At one time, yes, I believe they were.”

  Paxton stepped away from the dress and gestured to the other boxes. “What is all this?”

  “My grandmother’s things. I’ve been going through them. You caught me in the middle of putting them back in the attic.”

  “Looking for answers?” Paxton surmised. Of course she was. Georgie Jackson wouldn’t hurt a fly. And Willa was out to prove it. But when it came to Nana Osgood, Paxton wasn’t sure what she was capable of. And that scared her.

  “I haven’t found much, though,” Willa said, shrugging.

  “What have you found?”

  “I’m not out to incriminate Agatha, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just want to know what happened. Nothing was the same for my grandmother after that year. And I’m beginning to think Tucker Devlin might have had some hand in it.” She walked over to the coffee table and riffled through some papers there. “I found this at the library.” She handed Paxton a printout of the old society newsletter. Willa tapped a grainy black-and-white photo of a man in a suit standing between two mooning teenagers. The style of their clothing looked to be 1930s or ’40s. “That’s Tucker Devlin. He’s with Georgie and Agatha in that photo.”

  Startled, Paxton looked closer. Sure enough, there were her grandmother’s sharp cheekbones, her large dark eyes. She looked so happy. Paxton couldn’t remember ever seeing her grandmother happy. What had happened? Where did this girl go?

  “There’s something that’s been bothering me,” Willa said. “Do you think it’s just a coincidence that the Women’s Society Club was formed around the time he was killed?”

  “Of course it’s a coincidence,” Paxton said immediately. “How could the two possibly be connected?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that according to these newsletters, our grandmothers were friends who seemed devoted to each other. Then Tucker Devlin arrived and suddenly they were competitors for his affection. He disappeared in August, when they became tight again and formed the club.”

  Paxton rubbed her forehead. Why did that have to make so much sense? “Please don’t let that theory get out. I only have a tenuous hold on the club as it is.”

  “I thought we just went over this. I’m not going to tell anyone,” Willa said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Yes,” Paxton said. “Thank you.”

  When Willa left the room, Paxton went to the couch and sat, trying not to let it remind her of how sick she’d been the last time she was on it. She set the newsletter printout back down with the other papers on the coffee table, then noticed a photo album with a single photo sitting on top of it. She picked it up and studied it. He looked so magnetic in this photo. He was the kind of man you were sure could destroy entire civilizations with only a smile. Why would her grandmother kill him?

  Willa came back with two bottles of Snapple and handed one to Paxton. “Tucker Devlin certainly was handsome,” Paxton said. “If our grandmothers fell for him, I can see why.”

  Willa looked confused. “That’s not Tucker Devlin. That’s an old photo of my father I found in the album. I’ve been debating whether or not to put it back.”

  Paxton looked at it again. “What?”

  “That’s a photo of my father.”

  “It is? It looks just like Tucker Devlin.”

  Willa set her bottle down and took the photo from Paxton and looked at it. Then she lifted the newsletter printout. She compared the two, a look of comprehension coming over her face as she sat down hard beside Paxton
on the couch. “Oh, God, I was trying so hard not to believe it.”

  Seconds later, it hit Paxton, too. Georgie Jackson had been pregnant when her family lost the Madam—everyone knew that. But no one knew who the father was. Until now.

  That was it. The thing that turned everything around. This wasn’t just Paxton’s history, the one she loved and protected, the one that gave her such a sense of belonging. It was Willa’s, too. And somehow they were connected. Discovering that Tucker Devlin might be Willa’s grandfather was too much to ignore. Willa needed to know what happened to her family, even if it changed how Paxton thought about her own.

  “I think we need to talk to Nana Osgood,” Paxton said.

  Agatha was sitting on the love seat in her room as the sun set that evening. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it, feel the way the warmth moved across her face in tiny increments. There was a slight hint of peaches in the air, but it didn’t scare her. She was just glad Georgie wasn’t cognizant enough to be aware of him now.

  She didn’t want to eat in the dining hall that night, so she requested that her food be brought to her room. She liked eating her food alone. Her one last pleasure. She didn’t care much for mingling with the people here, anyway. She was far too old to make friends now. No one understood her anymore.

  She wasn’t depressed. Agatha had never been depressed. She was much too self-possessed for that. That’s not to say she liked her present circumstances, and, especially since hearing about the Madam and the discovery of Tucker Devlin’s remains, she found herself more and more in the past lately.

  “Nana Osgood?” It was Paxton’s voice coming from the doorway.

  “Paxton, what are you doing here? You just missed your brother, the tree boy. He came to visit me, finally. He brought me chocolates. What did you bring me?”

  “Willa Jackson,” Paxton said as she walked farther into the room. There was another set of footsteps, another form beside Paxton.

  “Hello, Mrs. Osgood,” Willa said. Willa had been a sneaky child. Not a mean one. Not a deceitful one. But sneaky nonetheless. Agatha had always seen it. Georgie had, too, but as with Ham, she’d been convinced that she could trample down any wild hair that reminded her of Tucker Devlin and make her family as quiet and normal as possible. It hadn’t always been to their advantage. In fact, Agatha believed Ham could have gone on to great things if only his mother hadn’t instilled in him such a sense of his own smallness. But Georgie had felt she was only balancing out the magical stormy nature she was scared Ham and Willa might have inherited from Tucker. They had inherited it, of course. That much had always been clear. But that didn’t mean they would turn out badly. She should have told Georgie that.