“I been tellin’ your mama she’s got to do somethin' with that horse,” Maizie said. “He won't hardly let nobody near him these days.”
“What about Warren? He could always handle Knight.”
“Tinker done fired Warren. He been tryin' to take care of Knight hisself, and that 'rrangement ain't been workin' out too good.”
“That’s because Jason doesn't know one thing about running a farm, never mind caring for a horse.” It was more than that, though, Beth thought. Jason had a cruel streak. He was just flat-out mean.
“Who’s Warren?” Charlie asked.
“Our foreman,” Beth answered. “He’s handled the farm for Mama since Daddy passed.”
“So, what about the accident that killed your dad?” Charlie asked. “You’ve never told me much about how it happened.”
Was that an accusation? Beth didn’t know. She looked over the seatback. Chrissy was slumped against him soundly sleeping. “There was a brush fire,” she said. “Smoke everywhere. Knight took Daddy off into some trees.”
Maizie’s voice rode under Beth's. “Everythin’ scared that horse. After the way y'all babied him, it's hard to figure, but once he got growed up, he didn’t want nobody on his back. Told your daddy a dozen times.”
“A branch caught Daddy right here.” Beth rested her hand high on her chest. “Knocked him off. No one knew anything was wrong until Knight came back to the barn alone. By the time we found Daddy, he'd been in the woods all night. He was in shock. He’d lost a lot of blood. Too much. He died three days later.”
Charlie’s expression softened.
Beth said how before he died, her daddy made her promise not to let Warren shoot Black Knight.
Charlie said, “That was a lot for you to handle.”
“Daddy knew how much I loved Knight. He said give him time and he’d come around; he’d be his old sweet-natured self, but then I left.”
They turned right, bumped over the cattle guard. They were on the private drive now and Beth knew she’d soon see the house. Her hands and feet had gone cold. They crossed the one-lane stone bridge that spanned Wither Creek. A sluggish stream of water, it flowed east and emptied into the lake where she’d learned to swim. What year was that? Had she been seven or eight? But the sense of her anticipation and dread made it impossible to concentrate.
There, among the trees, she caught glimpses of it, fragments of weathered white brick, darker flashes of black mortar and trim peeping through the leafy fringe, and now, visible as they crested the rise, a bit of railing attached to a section of roof. “The widow's walk,” she murmured, and feeling Charlie's stare, she turned quickly and found his glance.
“What is it?” he asked.
“What is it?” he asked.
But the question was too huge, and in any case her tongue felt rooted to her mouth. Without answering, she faced front again feeling the blunt force of Charlie’s gaze heat her scalp.
Chapter Three
Maizie stopped the car in the curve of the drive that fronted the house just beyond the columned porte cochere. Beth leaned forward as if pulled by some invisible thread. Her heartbeat was a rough hiccup in her chest. She was scarcely aware of Charlie's startled whistle, or Chrissy asking, “Is it a castle, Daddy?”
“Looks big enough, Stinkerbelle,” he said helping her from the car. “Seems like it’s a little more than what your mommy said, doesn’t it?”
Beth kept her seat. Maizie did too, her hands resting on the steering wheel. Both of them looked up the wide stairs at the veranda that lay in deep shadow. Beneath the graceful fanlight, the front door did not fly open in welcome. No face appeared at any window. Nothing stirred except an image that floated like a half-finished watercolor painting through Beth’s mind: of herself as a little girl. When she was not much older than Chrissy, she’d fallen into the habit of dragging her dolls and coloring books, Lamby, and any number of other toys out onto the porch to play, and when she got tired, Daddy or Mama'd pile pillows in the swing, tuck her in, and sing to her until she fell asleep. Mama'd come out with tea and lemonade, always adding a splash or two of vodka to her own glass, and Daddy’d drunk his before-dinner bourbon sitting in one of the three porch rockers that were lined up like dowagers between the stately columns. He’d claimed it wasn't a fitting end to the day if he didn't hear the cattle settling in for the night.
Then Daddy died, and Mama changed. Or maybe Daddy had kept her good, and on her own Mama hadn't had the courage.
Beth brought her hands to her mouth. “I tried so hard. But she wanted him.”
“Hush now. That’s past. She's finished with him. Come on inside. Let her tell you herself.”
“Mommy?” Worry raised Chrissy's voice as she clambered into the backseat again and sat forward, patting her mother's hair.
Beth grasped Chrissy's small palm and held it to her cheek, then kissed it. “It’s okay, sugar. Don't be afraid. There's nothing to be scared of.” She repeated it for her own sake as much as Chrissy’s.
They climbed from the car into the hot afternoon. A sudden break in the clouds gave way to stabbing sunlight, and Beth shut her eyes against the glare. She lifted her hair from the back of her neck, felt a slight coolness.
Charlie said, “Funny, you never said you were rich.”
“It's Clayton money an’ Clayton land,” Maizie warned.
Charlie raised his hands. “You think I'm after her money? I never even knew there was any until now.”
“Well, jus’ so we’re clear, I'm done lettin’ men come in here thinkin' they can take advantage.”
“Charlie.” Beth put out a placating hand.
He shook her off. “Makes me wonder what else you haven’t told me.”
“Beth? Beth, honey? Is it you?”
She closed her eyes on hearing her mother’s voice, afraid to look. Afraid Mama would be dipping tipsily. After all, it was well past the eight a.m. mimosa mixer hour, never mind the noon vodka tonic hour. But she seemed steady as she crossed the walkway. Beth hugged herself; the old sense of despair mixed with anger rooting her where she stood. She had a sense of Maizie's disapproval, and Charlie's further confusion, as she made her mama come the distance between them alone. You and your foolish pride. Had Maizie spoken aloud, or was it Beth’s own disgust she heard whispering in her brain?
“Sweetheart,” her mama said, “I can't tell you how thrilled I am to see you.”
Beth allowed Mama to take her hands and offered her cheek for a kiss, but without breathing, afraid she would encounter the smell of whatever Mama might have been drinking. But there was none of that and once she stepped away, Beth thought how Mama felt firmer, too, and less vague. Still, she bit down hard on a leap of hope as she made introductions.
Mama knelt before Chrissy not quite touching her, waiting for a sign of welcome, and when Chrissy took a step and greeted her, saying, “Hi, Grandma,” so much love flooded Mama’s face that a lump formed in Beth's throat. She tipped back her head, blinking and swallowing, while Mama first embraced Chrissy, then held her at arm's length. “I believe this child favors her father,” she laughingly exclaimed, underscoring Maizie’s opinion. Mama straightened now and extended her hand toward Charlie.
“I've waited a long time for this day,” she said. “I’m Lucy Farrell Tinker. Beth’s mama,” she added as if he wouldn’t know. Her accent was warm and as richly southern as a fresh-baked, pecan pie.
It crossed Beth's mind that even with all the drinking and unhappiness, Mama was still elegant. She looked older for sure and appeared a shade or two thicker through the waist. A fine cobweb of lines netted her eyes and tension knotted the corners of her mouth, but she was pretty, and if she looked haunted and anxious, it was probably not having the liquor--if what Maizie said was true, and Mama really had quit drinking.
“Come inside now,” Mama said. “We'll have something to eat. Are you hungry?” Her gaze rested on Charlie as if she suspected his wounded feelings and made a particular effort to e
ase them. But Lucy Farrell Tinker was nothing if not the soul of Texas hospitality and charm. Even fumbling and vague with drink, she had always had a sense about how to make a stranger feel welcome.
“I done baked a lemon cake,” Maizie said leading the way. “Y'all wash up while I get things together.”
Mama smoothed Chrissy's cap of dark rambunctious curls, but her gaze rested on Beth. “That’s Lamby she’s carrying, isn’t it? I can’t believe you took him with you.”
She meant because Beth had left behind most everything else she owned. Stuffing the lamb into her suitcase had been an afterthought. “She won't go anywhere without him.”
“Well, I’ll be. You wouldn’t either. Sugar, I don't believe it. It’s just too precious.” Mama headed up the steps, but then as if she sensed Beth’s apprehension, she turned, their eyes locked, and Beth knew they were both remembering the same thing: that awful long-ago evening when Mama'd waltzed into Beth's bedroom and announced her intention to marry Jason Tinker. She’d sat in the little French boudoir chair at the foot of the bed instead of on the bed with Beth as she usually did, and using her I’ll tolerate-no-back-talk-from-you-young-lady voice, she had announced that Beth had no idea how lonely her life was without Beth’s father.
Beth regarded her over the book she was reading, Jane Eyre, or maybe it had been something by Edna Ferber, Giant or Saratoga Trunk. Beth couldn’t remember now, but she did remember what she’d said. “You have me, Mama.” And she’d prayed it was only liquor talk.
“And I love you, sugar, you know I do, but--”
“Then why do you need him? He's almost young enough to be your son. That's what they're saying in town. They make jokes about it, about you.”
“That's enough, missy. You haven't any idea how it is for a woman alone, what it is to do without--”
“Sex? Are you talking about sex?”
Mama’s eyes widened; she was shocked.
“What?” Beth rose onto her knees. “I'm sixteen, Mama. I know about sex!”
“You stop that filthy talk this instant, young lady. I won't have it. Jason's been nothing but kind to us.” She left the room, saying, “Most men refuse to be saddled with a child who's not their own.”
Later, after she’d soothed her nerves with several vodka-laced glasses of sweetened iced tea, she’d been conciliatory; Beth was young; Beth would understand such things when she was older. But Mama had been wrong. Beth hadn't needed to be older to know what it felt like to be lonely and afraid.
Now Mama loosened her gaze from Beth’s and urged her to come in. “You look positively faint, sweetheart. You need to eat something, I imagine. We can remedy that, can't we, Christabelle? Is that what you like to be called?” Turning her back on Beth, Mama went on up the steps. “Or do you have another favorite name?”
“Mommy calls me Chrissy, but Daddy calls me Stinkerbelle sometimes.” Chrissy peeked at Beth over her tiny shoulder, some mischief playing in her eyes, and then looked back at her grandmother. “But I like my whole name. I wish I'd be called that.”
Since when? Beth wondered.
Mama said, “All right, Christabelle it is then,” and wonder was loose in her voice as if she couldn’t quite believe in the gift of her granddaughter, and watching them Beth felt her heart constrict with mixed pangs of annoyance and envy. But it hurt somehow, that after spending all the years of Beth’s childhood in a blurry haze, Mama would finally get sober in time to play the kind and loving grandma.
But wasn’t this the very thing Beth had prayed for the entire way here? That Mama would be through with drinking and through with Jason? They wouldn’t stay otherwise; they couldn’t. Beth stepped across the threshold, blinking in the sudden dimness, glance careening the circle that shaped the entry hall, half in expectation that Jason would pop from the shadows. But there was only Mama, Charlie and Chrissy.
And her memories, too, which were very nearly as real as flesh. The night six years ago, when Beth left, her mama had stood right here in the foyer, not even bothering to deny it when Beth accused her of preferring Jason.
“I can’t believe you'd rather have him around!” Beth had shouted not caring who heard her. “After what he did! To you, too, Mama, not just me. And you still can't see what a creep he is. You make me sick.”
“Go on, if you’re so determined,” Mama cried. “I don't want you here,” she had said.
The words were a bitter echo now in Beth’s ears.
Mama was telling Chrissy about Beth’s bedroom upstairs, that some of Beth’s old toys were there. “Dress-up clothes and dolls. There are whole bunches of little kitchen things.” She reached out her hand and Chrissy happily took it.
Watching them, Beth’s resentment hardened into a knot under her ribs, as childish as it was unreasoning. Maybe Mama had forgotten that night. Maybe she thought they could just live over it, the way Beth had thought Charlie didn’t need to know what had happened to her here. She closed her eyes. So much unfinished business, so much sore emotion muddling the air. More than she'd anticipated. What would come of it?
And yet her surroundings were so dear to her, as strange as they were reassuringly familiar. She breathed expansively catching the scent of pressed linen, oiled wood, and the flowers from a thousand bouquets that had graced the matching marble-topped tables on opposite sides of the foyer, and a profound rush of love welled up inside her. She'd always had a sense that her ancestors had left traces of themselves in the very air of this house. That their habits, the food they ate, their clothes, even the individual perfume of their skin, had sifted themselves into every pore of wood and fabric. The odor was unique, a fragrant history she recognized instinctively, and it was only here and nowhere else. Thankfully, that had not changed in the years of her self-imposed exile.
Her feet carried her over the path of her vision. The formal dining room appeared smaller than she remembered, but still retained that same designed and polished air of anticipation, as if awaiting guests who never arrived. Daddy had done a lot of entertaining in here. There had been dinners to kick off a fund raiser, or somebody's election campaign, or to celebrate a birthday. But the flow of friends and sympathy and ordinary conviviality had stopped when Mama remarried.
Across from the dining room, Beth paused in the doorway of the music room. Inside, her daddy's baby grand piano filled one corner. He had often played into the night, Chopin, Mozart, Beethoven. Classical piano was his third love, after farming, after his love of horses. Leaving the music room, she wandered toward the library, but now her steps became reluctant. She didn't like the library. It lacked the long windows and lovely garden view of the music room. She paused in the doorway, finding the atmosphere as bleak and dismal as her memory.
French doors at the end opposite her opened onto a small outdoor patio where moss and lichen lined the crevices of a brick floor; a tangle of oak and yaupon overgrown with Virginia Creeper gave dense shade. Whatever stray light found its way inside was swallowed by ornately paneled walls, shelves of dark-spined books and an assortment of family portraits. It was in here that Mama did her steady drinking, and an odor of alcohol permeated the air. A half-empty decanter of Old Granddad sat out on the bar. There were dozens of decanters, though, filled with every imaginable kind of liquor concealed in cabinets under the bar. Mama had it delivered from town, or she’d used to. Beth turned and left quickly.
The low rolling growl of thunder sounded closer now, and Beth heard Charlie say something about rain as she recrossed the foyer.
Mama dismissed the prospect. “It's been clouding up the same way every day, but it blows over without much more than a spatter.” Her observation seemed to depress her.
Beth glanced up the wide staircase. Through the tall window that rose from the landing floor, she watched a few heavy drops strike the beveled glass and run like tears. As if in prophecy, she thought, and shivered.
Chapter Four
The meal, if you could call finger sandwiches, fresh fruit and lemon cake a meal, w
as served in the solarium. Fancy word, Charlie thought, for a room with windows, a stone floor, and a bunch of plants. Where he’d been raised on the south side of Chicago, there’d been three people crammed into a two-room apartment. After his dad was sent up to Joliet prison, the aunt who had raised Charlie took over the bedroom.
Maizie handed him a glass of tea and a plate holding four, tiny crustless sandwiches, and he thanked her for it, and while the women talked a blue streak and ignored the food, he stuffed every one of the tasty rectangles into his mouth at once, clowning for Chrissy, making her giggle.
Beth stopped haranguing her mother long enough to lecture him for his lack of manners, for setting a poor example.
Lucy chided her. “Beth, sweetheart, let’s sit down and have a little something to eat now. You’ll feel better.”
But Beth only glared at her mother, and without the least trace of anything that could be called mannerly, she said, “I’m just asking one thing, Mama. Have you told Jason to leave this house?”
Lucy’s glance was on Charlie when she answered, “Not now, Beth. I won’t discuss this now,” and her hand at her throat was as white as her face.
Charlie looked away to give her some space; he helped Chrissy from her chair and didn’t notice when Lamby slipped to the floor. “Why don't we go outside, Stinkerbelle? Let everybody visit?” He took her by the hand.
Lucy began a protest. “See what you’ve done?” She was blaming Beth.
Charlie cut in. “No. It’s okay. Really. Chrissy's been cooped up too long. We'll just go for a walk. Stretch our legs. How about it, peanut?”
The Last Innocent Hour Page 2