by Mary Kennedy
That leaves out Gina, I thought to myself. Gina was a voluptuous redhead.
“So you’re not sure of his identity? But you saw everything else so clearly,” I said. “The cherubs, the curtains, the fountains, and gardens.”
“I know,” Lucinda said, her eyes clouding. “But the man is a different story completely.”
“You said he was tall and dark-haired,” Ali said encouragingly. “Can you remember anything else? Try to picture him dancing and tell us exactly what you see. Close your eyes and concentrate.”
“He was spinning his partner around and around,” Lucinda said dreamily. “And there were flames leaping up in the background, but he didn’t seem to notice them. I could see that part of the scene very clearly. And when the song ended, they embraced, and that’s when I finally had a good look at him. His head was tilted to the side and I was standing just a few feet away.”
“And—” I interjected. I felt a wave of impatience bubbling up inside me; I wanted Lucinda to cut to the chase.
“And,” Lucinda said, her voice low and hoarse, “I had quite a shock. Because that’s when I realized he had no face.”
13
A little chill went through me, and I set down my glass carefully on the counter. I felt the hairs rise on my forearm, and my heart hammered in my chest.
“Good Lord,” Minerva gasped and turned to her sister. “Did she just say what I think she said?”
“Yes, she did.” Rose nodded grimly. “She saw a man with no face. That’s a recurring image in dreams. Or I should say, in nightmares,” she added pointedly. “You must have been terrified,” she said to Lucinda, her voice soft with sympathy.
“I was,” Lucinda whispered her reply. “It was so awful. I shook my head from side to side and forced myself to wake up. But what does it mean?”
Ali raised her eyebrows and shot Lucinda a thoughtful look. “A faceless figure can mean a lot of things,” she began hesitantly, and something about her tone made me wonder if she was trying to be diplomatic. Ali has always been forthright and direct, but now she seemed to be choosing her words carefully.
“So it’s a common theme?” Minerva asked.
“Oh, yes. I’ve run into it before, in dream workshops I’ve taken. When you dream about someone faceless, or a person wearing a mask or a hood, it can be a self-protective measure.” Ali poured herself a glass of tea, and I noticed her hand was shaking a little.
“How so?” Minerva asked.
“Well, it could be the mind’s way of protecting you from an image you’re not ready to deal with. Maybe you can’t face seeing the identity of the person behind the mask. So you obliterate the face entirely. But in this case”—she waved her hand in the air—“that doesn’t really make sense, because we already know who the victim is. It was Chico,” she said sadly. We were silent for a moment.
“I hope I don’t have that dream again,” Lucinda said fervently. She gave a little shudder and folded her arms across her chest as if a cold wind had swept through the room. “I never should have listened to Persia. Telling myself to dream about Chico didn’t accomplish a thing except get me really upset.” I remember Lucinda telling the group that she liked to dream about kittens and babies, things that made her smile and lifted her spirits.
“Something positive may still come out of this, Lucinda. You’ve given us a lot to think about,” Minerva said, slowly getting to her feet. She handed me her credit card and waited while I rang up the candy. “But I’m afraid at the moment, we’re as much in the dark as ever. It’s odd that you described the old Collier mansion in such detail, my dear. Are you sure you’ve never been there? The Waltons hold an open house at Christmas to benefit one of the local charities. And of course, the estate is one of the stops on the garden tour. Their gardens are fabulous. Among the finest in Savannah, I’d say.”
Lucinda shook her head. “I don’t get out much,” she said, “especially since I’ve retired.”
It was hard to imagine Lucinda, who was quiet as a church mouse, attending any social events. She picked up a lace doily and ran her finger over the fine workmanship. Ali had scattered a few handmade vintage doilies here and there to tie in with the shabby chic décor. “Who are the Waltons? I thought you said the Colliers owned the estate.”
“The Colliers were the original owners, several generations ago. But Thomas Walton, the city councilman, bought the estate from a developer, and he and his wife, Jennifer, live there. She’s a lovely person, very involved in children’s welfare.” She carefully omitted saying anything about Councilman Thomas Walton, and it seemed this was deliberate.
“I think I saw a political ad for a Walton down by Forsythe Square the other day,” I said slowly. “I think the name was Thomas Walton. Middle-aged, dark hair, strong jaw?”
“Yes, that’s him,” Rose said. “Being city councilman is just a stepping-stone. He has high aspirations. He’s making a run for the United States Senate.” She raised her eyebrows. “Of course, people in Savannah have long memories, and who knows if he’ll be successful?”
“Do you mean he has a few skeletons in his closet?” I asked, puzzled.
Rose laughed. “Oh heavens, Taylor, everyone in this town has a few skeletons rattling around. He won’t be the first Savannah politician with a few surprises tucked away, and I daresay he won’t be the last. Boys will be boys, and men will be men, you know.” Minerva gave her a warning look, and Rose looked slightly abashed. “I suppose I shouldn’t gossip like this,” she said demurely. “You always tell me that, Minerva.”
“You know what Mama always taught us, Rose. If you can’t say something good about someone, don’t say anything at all.” She frowned at her sister, her face radiating disapproval.
I thought of Alice Roosevelt Longworth’s quote: “If you can’t say anything good about someone, sit right here by me.” She loved that saying so much, she even had it embroidered on a silk-screened throw pillow in her elegant Washington home.
Lucinda and the Harper sisters left a few minutes later, and Ali and I decided to have a late lunch upstairs before tackling the inventory. Dana had arrived to handle the shop, and her cheerful, energetic demeanor was in sharp contrast to my sister’s listlessness. Although Ali’s dark mood seemed to have lifted, she still seemed out of sorts and preoccupied, brewing a cup of her favorite mint tea and sipping it as she stared idly out the living room window.
“You must be starving,” I said. “You missed breakfast.” I tried to keep my tone light; the last thing I wanted was to face another lecture on my tendency to “hover.”
“That’s okay, I’m not really that hungry. I just can’t seem to concentrate today.” Barney and Scout were sleeping on the window bench and she ran her hand over Barney’s silky fur. He gave a soft meow and turned over in his sleep, raising a paw over his eyes to block out the light. Scout was sleeping in a tight ball, nose to tail, snoring lightly, his ears twitching a little.
“Well, let me make your favorite lunch, and then we can get busy,” I said, putting as much enthusiasm into my voice as I could.
“My favorite lunch?” Ali looked confused.
“Don’t you remember? Tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich? You’ve loved that ever since you were in grade school.”
“That was a classic, I do remember that.” She laughed. “You always made it for me when I got sick. You said that it would cure anything.”
“It’s classic comfort food; of course it will.”
“I have a better idea,” she said, reaching for her purse. “I think I’d feel better if we got out of here for a while. Let me give Dana a few instructions and then I’ll take you out to lunch. I found a place that makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches in the world.”
“In the entire world, or in Savannah?” I asked teasingly.
Ali grinned. “Same thing, sis. Same thing.”
Business
was slow at Sweet Caroline’s on Bay Street, and we grabbed a table near the window. The lunch crowd had wound down, and people were dropping in for drinks and pastries. It had a friendly laid-back atmosphere, and everyone seemed to know each other. The café was located in a great spot near Franklin Square, and Ali told me it was written up in a travel guidebook. A few people were seated at outdoor umbrella tables, but the Savannah sun was still high in the sky and the heat was oppressive. I was glad to duck inside and feel the comforting blast of the AC cranked up on high.
“Everything here is homemade,” Ali said, glancing up at the specials on the chalkboard. “Caroline does three or four different soups every day, and she bakes her rolls right here on the premises. All fresh ingredients.” She looked over the menu while the server poured us tall glasses of sweet tea served in mason jars. “If I ever open a restaurant, I’d like to open a place just like this,” she said. She sat back, happily munching on a selection of mini muffins the server had brought along with the iced tea.
I could see that I was going to have to watch my calories here in Savannah. Temptations abounded and I wasn’t getting much exercise. It seemed silly to invest in a gym membership since I didn’t know how long I’d be staying here. I vowed to start a daily one-hour walking tour of the city. It would be good for the mind, body, and spirit. Ali’s soft voice cut into my thoughts. “I think it would be such fun to be a restaurateur, Taylor, don’t you?”
A restaurateur? I blinked. As always, Ali was dreaming of something bigger, something better, and not concentrating on what was right in front of her. I didn’t want to ruin the fragile relationship we’d established so I decided to say something positive.
“Well, I think it might be a little too much to take on right now, since you already handle a candy shop.” A little frown crossed Ali’s face and I quickly added, “A nice compromise might be to add the snacks and light lunch menu we talked about. We could capitalize on your location and the tourist trade,” I said hopefully. “And you’d have fun trying out different recipes and deciding which ones to add to the menu. You have a flair for that; you’re really creative.”
I didn’t want to mention that I’d already come up with some notes and cost projections. Ali has always had trouble taking suggestions. I’ve learned that it’s better not to be too direct with her and to take a more subtle approach.
“It’s not a bad idea,” she said thoughtfully. “Everything would have to be organic, of course, and homemade. I guess we could offer a few soups and salads to start. And maybe add a roasted veggie panini down the road.”
“That’s a terrific idea,” I said warmly. “What shall we try today?” I asked as the server returned to the table.
“I’m going to have that grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup we talked about,” Ali said. “They make it with soy cheese and you’d swear it was cheddar.” Her tone was light and cheerful, and she had a blush of color back in her face. She was right—getting out of the house was just what the doctor ordered. “Why don’t you order something different and we can share?”
All the choices looked delicious, but I finally settled on corn chowder with roasted red peppers and a croissant sandwich filled with brie and raspberry preserves. Sheer heaven. Ali had developed an appetite after all, and we happily wolfed down our lunch with refills on the sweet tea.
We were debating on whether or not to have dessert when Liese, the server, appeared with two coffees and two scrumptious servings of chocolate cake. She placed the desserts in front of us with a flourish, and I noticed the cake seemed to be layered with a mocha mixture. It looked sinfully decadent, and I practically salivated just looking at it.
“On the house, from Madame,” she said to Ali. “For you and your guest.”
“Oh, how sweet of her,” Ali exclaimed. “Tell her thank you and to please stop by so I can introduce her to my sister.”
When Liese smiled and darted away, Ali said, “Caroline is one of my favorite people in Savannah. She moved here from the south of France a few years ago and opened a much grander restaurant called La Bagatelle in the heart of the city. Then her husband died suddenly and she nearly retired from the business. But she had a change of heart. She didn’t want to disappoint her loyal customers so she decided to sell La Bagatelle and open this place. It’s less formal and it’s really popular with the locals.”
“I can see why,” I said, biting into the delicious dark chocolate confection. “The food is fantastic.”
“I’m so glad you enjoy it, mademoiselle,” a sweetly lilting voice said from behind me. I turned to see a stylish woman in her mid-fifties bend down to give Ali a quick hug. She was chic in that way only French women can pull off, and her white pencil skirt and cobalt blue silk blouse complemented her coloring. She had deep blue eyes and shiny black hair that she wore in a stylish cut, quite short, but perfect for her face. She was stunning and I could see the real affection she felt for my sister.
“My dear Ali,” she said, “how are you? I heard about the tragedy at the dance studio. You and Chico were close, no? So sad, I was so sorry to hear about his death.”
Ali, flushing a little, said, “Yes, it was quite a shock to all of us.” She paused. “Can you sit with us for a minute? I’d like you to meet my sister, Taylor. Taylor, this is Caroline LaCroix.” I noticed Ali gave her name the French pronunciation, Karoleen.
“Enchantée,” Caroline said formally and shook my hand. She slipped into the empty seat and said, “It’s lovely to have you in Savannah, Taylor. I think it’s good for Ali to have family around her. I hope you can stay here for a long time.”
I shook my head. “Well, that’s a bit up in the air at the moment,” I said. “Right now, I’m enjoying helping out in the shop and seeing a few of the sights.” Ali and I had never really discussed how long I’d be staying, and sister or not, I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. But I couldn’t forget that my condo, my job, and my friends were back in Chicago. At some point, I’d have to return and pick up my life there. I’d been managing to do a little work from my iPad for the time being, but that situation couldn’t continue indefinitely.
“But it would be a great dommage to not take the time to really explore this marvelous city,” Caroline said in her lovely French accent. I remembered from my high school French that dommage meant “shame.” She patted my hand. “If you need anyone to show you the sights, I’m here. There are twenty-two squares in the Historic District, did you know that?”
“Yes, I read it in the guidebook. And thank you so much.” She was the second person to offer to show me around Savannah, and I realized that Southern hospitality is more than just a myth.
“I really want to catch up with you, my chère Ali. But we’re catering a little event tonight at the Walton estate, and I have to finish up some desserts.”
Ali shot me a look across the table. “The Walton estate? What’s going on there?”
“Some political fund-raiser,” Caroline said, waving her hand in the air. “Thomas Walton”—she lowered her voice and leaned in close—“is pulling out all the stops. You know he’s running for the Senate, right? I think he’s falling behind in the polls, so he asked me to put together a series of intimate little dinners for the big donors. I’m doing round tables for eight, close to fifty people total at each dinner. And a cocktail party in the garden to start things off. That way everyone gets a chance to talk with him.”
“I’m sure it will be lovely,” Ali said. “What a wonderful setting.”
Caroline nodded. “Yes, the estate is magnificent. I’m using magnolias for the centerpieces with ivory and pale peach table linens. The ballroom is very large so there will be vanilla candles everywhere, both on the sconces and on the tables. That should banish any shadows; I want the whole effect to be light and airy.”
Banishing shadows. I thought of what Rose Harper had said about Thomas Walton and the skeletons he had rattling ar
ound his closet. Was that just idle talk, or did the octogenarian really know something nefarious about him?
“Do you know the Waltons very well?” I asked Caroline. If she was surprised by the question, she covered it quickly, her expression bland, her smile never faltering.
“Not so well,” she said, darting a quick look at Ali. I was sure that the Waltons were the subject of pretty juicy gossip, but Caroline was far too discreet to reveal it. “I know Madame Walton, Jennifer, from the Ladies Auxiliary Guild. She is charmante, très aimable. How do you say it? Charming and very nice.” She stood then, and clasped my hand in her own delicate one. “Welcome again, Taylor. Think about making Savannah your home. It is indeed merveilleux. If I can make your stay more pleasant in any way, just say the word.”
14
“Caroline is lovely, isn’t she?” Ali said when we were back outside in the Savannah sunshine. “She’s really taken me under her wing.”
“Did you get the feeling Caroline knows more about the Waltons than she’s letting on?”
Ali laughed. “Absolutely. You know what French women are like, the soul of discretion. I think there’s a lot more to the story, and we’ll never hear it from Rose or Caroline. But there are two special people in Savannah who love to dish, and luckily we’re very close to their store.”
Ali linked her arm through mine and we turned west on River Street and hurried past the square to a posh antique shop. The outside was spectacular with purple clematis and fiery bougainvillea blossoming on a trellis made of twisted branches arching over the doorway. The frame building was painted a pale lemon yellow, and the shutters were cobalt blue. The front stoop was crowded with overflowing pots of ferns and dusty rose hibiscus, giving the whole place the look of an enchanted cottage.