The Sugar Queen

by Sarah Addison Allen

  She stared at the back of his head. She’d always been attracted to Rawley, from the moment she saw him. Ladies in their circle never drove themselves anywhere. They had chauffeurs, or they called a cab. The first time she saw him—she was in her late twenties at the time—he was helping one of her friends out of his cab at a social function. She’d asked, “Who is that?”

  All the ladies who were natives of Bald Slope knew Rawley, and they were more than glad to tell her. He was beneath them, but so pretty to look at with his healthy good looks, blue eyes and russet hair. After high school he’d gone into the service. He’d just come back to Bald Slope to work for his father at Pelham Cabs. He met her eyes that day, and it was the start of three years of long looks, three years of her dismissing the chauffeur for the day, then suddenly realizing she had to go somewhere, so of course she had to call a cab. And it was always Rawley who came. She never had to ask for him by name.

  It was so innocent at first. He talked with her, laughed with her. She’d lived for those rides. She was lonely, and he was kind—good-natured and gangly with youth. She knew she should have been more responsible. She was older than Rawley by almost eight years, after all. But she hadn’t meant to get so close to him. Not intimate, anyway.

  Then it happened.

  Rawley had driven Margaret home on the evening of Christmas Eve after the church program. All the servants were gone for the holiday, and the house was as dark as a hole. They’d had a bevy of help back then. Full-time cook, maid, gardener, chauffeur. But not even Marco was home. By that time she’d known about his other women. The first time, she’d been devastated. The second didn’t hurt as much. By his tenth affair, she was numb.

  She’d looked up at the house that night and felt empty. She hadn’t talked to her family in Asheville since she’d left almost ten years ago. Her father was a hard man who’d clung to his old Southern name. His family lost all their money in the market crash, but they never lost their pride. Margaret was his oldest of seven daughters and she took care of her loud, needy sisters after her mother died giving birth to the last one. She cleaned the house from day to night and kept their clothes stitched and fine, because her father wanted to give the illusion to all who knew them that they could afford servants. Even working as hard as she did, her father expected her to keep her appearance impeccable, because he said her beauty was his only thing of value. She thought he meant he valued her, and that was the only thing that kept her going. Later, when he brought Marco to dinner, when he forced Margaret to sit next to Marco at the table, then had her younger sisters serve them drinks on the veranda and leave them alone, she understood. All she was to him was an investment. And as soon as all her sisters were out of the baby stage and able to care for themselves, he’d basically sold her to the man who offered the most.

  After that, she couldn’t wait to get away.

  Rawley had opened the door for her and she’d stepped out. She remembered it had been a mild winter. The grass was still green.

  “Good night, Mrs. Cirrini,” he’d said. “Have a joyous Christmas.”

  “Good night,” was all she’d managed before her voice broke. She tried to hurry away, but Rawley caught her hand. She was wearing her red swing coat with the high funnel collar, a red pillbox hat, and white gloves. She’d looked beautiful, young and stylish. She still had that outfit tucked away in the attic. Later, for years after it ended, she would go up and put it on when Marco wasn’t home.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Please let go of my hand. The neighbors will see.”

  “There’s no one around. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing. I must be tired, that’s all.” Then, before she knew it, she was crying. Bawling. She couldn’t control it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, and she was appalled at herself for doing so now.

  Rawley had taken her into his arms. Oh, it had felt so good, just to be held. He was gentle with her, obviously not wanting to hurt her or scare her, because she was so small and he was so big and inexperienced.

  She’d wept for a long time, until at last there were no more tears. She quieted and stilled completely, shocked to find herself in his arms, and then afraid to move because she didn’t want him to let go.

  “Better?” he’d asked, and she heard his words in his chest, her ear to his heart.

  She looked up at him and nodded. They’d stared at each other for a long time.

  He slowly lowered his head, slowly enough for her to pull away if she’d wanted to. She should have. She was Marco Cirrini’s beautiful ice-queen wife. He was the naive blue-collar son of the man who owned the local cab company. But for all those reasons, and hundreds more, she didn’t move.

  His lips finally touched hers, and she suddenly felt alive, melting slowly. She never would have known if it weren’t for Rawley. She never would have felt her own heart. He’d shown her she actually had one.

  And in return, she’d broken his.

  She felt a cold gush of air and snapped out of it to see that they’d stopped in front of the newly renovated Downtown Inn, where the luncheon was being held. Rawley was holding the cab door open for her. She looked up at him, the wind blowing his hair, his jacket collar flapping. She felt strangely content, like she felt when she would sometimes dream of him. There would still be Livia Lynley-White to deal with, but she decided to forgive Josey, just this once.

  Rawley slowly extended his hand to help her out.

  And with a deep breath, she touched him for the first time in forty years.

  The next afternoon, mail in hand, Adam walked up the steps to the Cirrinis’ porch. It was finally snowing. He’d felt it coming for days. He always could. He loved when it snowed. At least he used to. These days it was more like a memory of happiness. He used to believe good things happened in this kind of weather, but that was before he almost died one snowy day. He deliberately lost touch with the man he used to be. That man was foolish and careless. The man he was today was safe and calm. This was his second chance to live. This was the life he was supposed to lead now.

  It didn’t always feel like living, though.

  But that was the old Adam talking.

  He put the mail in the Cirrinis’ box and waited for Josey to appear. When she didn’t, he frowned and rubbed his forehead. This was ridiculous. So he knew she loved him. He still wanted to see her. He didn’t want things to change. Without another thought, he knocked on the door.

  A small, pretty woman with caramel-colored skin opened the door. She looked at him curiously.

  “Mail?” she asked.

  “Oh. Right.” He reached over to the mailbox and took out the mail, then he held it up to show her. He felt like an idiot. “Is Josey here?”

  “Oldsey?”

  “No, Josey.”

  “It’s okay, Helena. I’ll take care of this,” Josey said, suddenly appearing behind her.

  Helena skittered away, leaving Josey there in the doorway, staring at him guardedly. But then her eyes slid past him, and she smiled.

  “It’s finally snowing!” she said, opening the screen door. “I’ve been waiting for this for days.”

  She went to the porch railing and stuck her hand out, the rainy snow pooling on her palm. She loved snow. That was strange. He knew she loved snow. He knew that from three years of coming to her door.

  “It’s so beautiful.”

  “It’s going to be deep. Great for snowmen,” he said as he came to stand beside her.

  She laughed, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “I’ve never made a snowman.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a neighborhood rule.”

  He was staring at her now, at her dark shiny curls and her skin so fair it looked like cold fresh cream. “You don’t have to avoid me, Josey,” he said. “There’s no reason for it.”

  She stared straight ahead, watching the snow. She’d gone very still.

  “We’re okay. I like what we
have,” he continued.

  “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, I want to know.”

  “It means, Adam, that you get to be object of someone’s affection. I don’t.” She suddenly waved her hands as if to erase what she’d said from the air. “Oh, God,” she said, turning to him. “Forget I said that, please.”

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Listen, while you’re here, I want to talk to you about Chloe,” she said, changing the subject in a flash.

  He nodded, encouraging her to talk, to interact. Anything to keep her from running away. “Okay.”

  “The reason Chloe keeps seeing this Julian person is because he’s telling her he knows who Jake slept with.”

  “Damn,” Adam said, surprised. “I’ll let Jake know.”

  “No, please don’t tell him,” she said. “Just see if you can find out who it is, okay? I’m not trying to butt into their relationship. I’m just trying to keep her from seeing Julian again. He’s hurt someone else I know. I don’t want him to do it again.”

  She’d never asked him for anything. How could he say no? He handed her the mail. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  He watched her walk to her door. You get to be the object of someone’s affection. I don’t. “Josey?” he suddenly said.

  She turned.

  He hesitated. Don’t change things. “Have a nice Thanksgiving.”

  “You too, Adam.”

  At first the snow was light and mixed with rain like confetti, white and silver, at an anniversary party. It was not enough, Margaret decided, to keep her from her hair appointment that afternoon. Thanksgiving was a day away, and this was the last opportunity to get her hair done before the start of the tedious Christmas social season. Her holiday wardrobe from Wiseman and Farrow had arrived by express courier earlier that week. She used to have Josey drive her into Asheville twice a year for clothes from the old, exclusive shop. But after Margaret broke her hip, Mrs. Farrow’s granddaughter came up and took her measurements—she was proud to say she was as trim as she was forty years ago—and the shop sent her clothes twice a year now, at springtime and Christmastime. This year for the holiday they’d sent brilliant reds and tasteful golds and blues the color of her eyes. She would always be the best-dressed woman in Bald Slope. There were a lot of things about her body she couldn’t control—her unpredictable bones, her papery skin—but a nice wardrobe and beautiful hair, that she had some power over. Even Livia Lynley-White said she was still a beauty.

  Not that she meant it as a compliment.

  “I want you to go to the grocery store while I have my hair done,” Margaret said as Josey drove her to the salon, after some quibbling that was very unlike Josey. The snow is going to be deep, Josey had said. We don’t want to get stuck. Why don’t you wait to have your hair done?

  Wait, she’d said. Like it wasn’t important.

  “Maybe I should stay with you,” Josey said, her eyes on the road. “The snow is going to get heavier, and I might not be able to get back to you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Go to the store. I made a list.” Margaret snapped open her purse and put the list on the dashboard. “Since Helena has the day off tomorrow, I want pastries for breakfast, a sandwich and apple chips for lunch and a salad for dinner. That should be easy enough for you to prepare.”

  Josey sighed, just a puff of air, like she was trying to see her breath in the cold. “It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and it’s snowing. The grocery store will be a madhouse.”

  Margaret stared at Josey’s profile. Something was changing with Josey, and Margaret didn’t like it at all. She was spending more time out with her errands. She would not tell Margaret who her friend was. She was expressing opinions much more freely. It was almost as if she’d been practicing, like someone had been giving her lessons.

  “Josey?” Margaret said.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “You are going to the grocery store and you are going to get everything on my list.”

  “Of course I am, Mother,” Josey said, sounding surprised. “Was there ever any question?”

  That was the problem. There was. There suddenly was.

  When Margaret entered the salon, she was relieved to see that Annabelle Drake was there. That meant Rawley had already dropped her off and left. Annabelle was a nice enough woman, but she was one of those women who couldn’t do anything alone. She never went to the beauty salon without checking to see if four other people she knew were going to be there. She had breakfast with her eldest daughter. She had lunch with her youngest. She had dinner with her middle child, the son. Every single day. She didn’t trust herself to do anything alone. This was, Margaret figured, in large part due to her late husband, Don, a successful doctor and all-around louse. He’d told Annabelle that she was incapable so many times that it had sunk into her marrow. Margaret wondered if Rawley found Annabelle’s vulnerability attractive.

  “Margaret, you have such beautiful hair,” Annabelle said when Margaret was seated in the stylist’s chair beside her.

  “Thank you.” Longer hair like hers, almost touching her shoulders, with several shades of blond highlights painted into her gray, was hard to maintain at her age. But she wasn’t going to let her hair go steely and get a perm like Annabelle.

  “And those shoes are just darling.”

  “I had them specially made,” she said, sticking her foot out so everyone could see. She was beautiful. She was more beautiful than Annabelle. And she had more money.

  The salon was busy, the air swimming with plans and rumors and favorite Thanksgiving recipes. It took longer than it usually did for her hairdresser to finish with her hair. Then Margaret had to wait for the manicurist. It was all very inconvenient, and her hip was now aching, but she was generous with her tips anyway. She wanted to be well thought of. And it was always easier to be generous with people you didn’t know well. Afterward, she went to the reception area, expecting to see Josey waiting for her.

  But Josey wasn’t there.

  Margaret had just walked up to the receptionist’s desk to ask if her daughter had called or been by, when the bell over the door rang. Relieved that Josey was now there, she felt free to be angry with her for not being there when she was supposed to be.

  But when she turned, it wasn’t Josey she saw.

  It was Rawley Pelham.

  His jacket and moleskin driving cap were covered in snow and he took a moment to brush them off before he walked farther in. For a moment it was like he was shaking dust off, as if he’d just come out of storage.

  “Mrs. Drake will be finished in just a few minutes,” the receptionist told Rawley.

  “You say that every time,” Rawley said with a wink. “I get here later and later each visit, and still I wait.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  He took a seat on one of the couches. “That would be nice, thank you.”

  The receptionist went to get his coffee, leaving Rawley and Margaret to stare at each other. He was in his mid-sixties now, his hair silver. She’d noticed just this past summer, however, that when he stood in the sun, glints of auburn still shone through. The young man she once knew wasn’t all gone.

  Talk to me, she thought. Say something.

  When the receptionist came back and handed Rawley a cup of coffee, Margaret finally turned away and headed to the ladies’ room, where she intended to hide until Rawley left.

  The phone rang as she was walking away. The receptionist said a few words into the receiver, then called, “Wait, Mrs. Cirrini, your daughter is on the phone.”

  Margaret hastily walked back and took the phone. “Josey? Are you all right? Why aren’t you here?”

  “I’m just leaving the grocery store,” Josey said, sounding tense. “It’s going to take a while to get there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the ro
ads are terrible and there’s a ton of traffic. The grocery store was packed.”

  “I don’t understand you, Josey. Are you doing this on purpose?”

  “Why would I do this on purpose, Mother?”

  Rawley stood and walked to the desk. He set his coffee cup down. “Will you ask Mrs. Cirrini if I could speak to her daughter?” he said to the receptionist, though he was looking at Margaret.

  “Mrs. Cirrini…” the receptionist started to say.

  “Why do you want to speak to my daughter?” Margaret asked him.

  He took a few steps to her and gently took the phone away from her. She leaned in slightly, but he didn’t quite touch her. Almost, though.

  “Josey, it’s Rawley Pelham. Where are you?” he said into the receiver, watching Margaret the entire time. “I see. You’ll never make it here, not in that car. Go home and be careful. I’m here to pick up Annabelle Drake and it would be no problem at all to drop your mother off at your house. I have chains on my tires.” Pause. “You’re very welcome. Remember, be careful.”

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” Margaret said as he handed the receiver back to the receptionist. “Why are the two of you suddenly in cahoots? Did you ever think to ask me if that was what I wanted?” As soon as she said it, as soon as she saw the look on his face, she knew how hypocritical it sounded, considering what had happened between the two of them.

  Rawley turned to Annabelle, who had just appeared at Margaret’s side. Margaret smelled her perm before she saw her. “Annabelle, will you help Mrs. Cirrini outside when I pull the cab up to the front door? Josey can’t make it here in this snow.”

  “I don’t want you to take me home,” Margaret said desperately. You don’t even like me.

  “Don’t you agree, Annabelle, that Josey would never make it from the market, to here, and back to the Cirrinis’ neighborhood in this weather?”

  “He’s right, Margaret,” Annabelle said, patting her on the arm. “Come with us. You’ll be our chaperone. There’s a rumor going around about me and Rawley, you know, because we spend so much time together in his cab.”