by Gayle Trent
I realized I was stalling and parked the car midway around the circular drive. There were no other cars in the driveway, so I doubted I’d be blocking anyone. Besides, another car could simply back out if need be.
If Mrs. Dobbs was having a party, none of her guests were here yet. That was to be expected, I supposed, but I would’ve thought the caterers would be here at the very least.
I took the cake from the passenger side of the car and walked up to the door. Mrs. Dobbs must’ve been watching for me. I didn’t even have to ring the doorbell.
“Right on time,” she said, opening the door with a broad smile. “I do admire punctuality. I have a bit of a reputation for being late myself.”
“I’ve been known to be late a few times,” I said with a laugh. “But when it’s for a client, I make an extra effort to be early or at least on time.”
“That’s good of you. Please come in.”
I preceded her into a wide foyer illuminated by a four-tier chandelier.
“Right this way, dear,” Mrs. Dobbs said.
I was right about the dining room. It was one of the rooms with the enormous picture windows. The furniture was cherry. There was a table for eight, a hutch and a side buffet. A brass and crystal chandelier hung above the table and shone on a white chrysanthemum centerpiece. Overall, it was an elegant room.
The table was set for two…but not at either end. One place setting was at the head of the table, but the other was to that person’s left . . . as if that person took a deferential position to the one who sat at the head.
I sat the cake on the table. “It appears Mr. Dobbs’ party is going to be an intimate occasion.”
“I do hope so, Daphne. I . . . .” She looked away. “I hope so.” She looked back at me. “I’m having Dakota’s deliver dinner.”
“Dakota’s delivers?”
She gave a tight smile. “We have an arrangement.” She glanced at the brass clock placed in the center of the buffet. “In fact, the young man should be here any minute.”
“Would you like to look at Mr. Dobbs’ cake before I go?”
“Oh, no, dear. I’m sure it’s lovely. If you’ll leave me your business card, I’ll have my accountant send you a check.”
“This one’s on me.”
“Nonsense. I’d feel terrible if you didn’t allow me to pay you.”
I took a business card from my purse and handed it to her. “I appreciate your business, Mrs. Dobbs.”
“You’re quite welcome. I’ve heard you do marvelous work.”
“Really? May I ask from whom? I mean, I haven’t been in town that long . . . ”
“Yodel mainly. Yodel Watson. She might not have let on to you, but she was impressed with your work.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your sharing that with me.”
Mrs. Dobbs looked at the clock again. “I do hope Kellen gets here soon.” She lowered her eyes. “He’s so very dedicated to . . . the store.”
“I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.” I moved toward the foyer, and Mrs. Dobbs walked me to the door.
“Do have a safe drive home.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dobbs. Goodnight.”
As I left, Mrs. Dobbs was standing in the doorway. I didn’t know whether she was watching me leave or watching for her husband to come home. Either way, I could feel myself beginning to harbor some hostility toward Kellen Dobbs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On Thursday, I awoke with a sense of purpose. I’d talked with Dad the night before and knew Mom was home and doing well; but the ghost of Jonah March would not let me see a minute’s peace. I had to find out if my mother and his mother were the same person. Most people—I’m thinking Violet here—would ask, “What difference does it make? The man is dead and gone.” But it did make a different to me. I wanted to know if Jonah had been my half-brother . . . if Joanne Hayden was my niece.
Since Mom’s latest episode, I doubted I could ever ask her anything about Vern March or an illicit pregnancy without making her heart explode . . . an event which would not only kill her but more than likely ruin the very bra she’d hoped to be buried in. Two major strikes against me in one fell swoop.
Please forgive me for being so flippant about my mother’s health. I do love her, but that woman and I have so much history…so much muddy water under our rickety bridge.
Anyway, I knew I couldn’t talk with my mother about the issues weighing on my mind—not to mention my heart—so I decided to look through public records. But where to start? Vern had been buried in Scott County. Something either Myra or Peggy had told me led me to believe he’d had family there. It made sense that he and Gloria would leave this town to get married, especially if they were going to falsify the license by having someone pose as Gloria’s mother. Scott County seemed to be my best bet.
I fed Sparrow, filled a travel mug with coffee and headed toward Scott County. By the time I got there, the courthouse should be open.
The fiery reds and golds and muted greens on the leaves had all turned brown on the trees I encountered along the way. Not many leaves were actually left on the trees, of course…only a few hung on, ignorant of their futility. Those stark, naked trees spoke to my soul as they lifted their limbs to heaven, seemingly entreating God for mercy. I, too, longed for His mercy. What would it do to me—how would it change my life—if I found out my mother had been married to Vern March and that they had had a son?
*
The Scott County courthouse loomed before me as I parked my car near one of the parking lot’s three-globed lamp stands. The building seemed to get even larger as I approached. I imagined Vern and Jonah March looking down on me from the octagonal tower atop the courthouse.
“That’s Gloria’s daughter,” I imagined Vern saying. “She’s here to learn the truth.”
I could practically hear Jonah’s mocking laughter. “Is she now? Is she really? The truth ain’t always what it’s cracked up to be. You can still get back in your car and go home, little girl.”
I could go home.
It’s odd that, in my mind, Jonah’s ghost had called me a little girl. Or maybe it wasn’t so odd. I did feel like a child—vulnerable, alone, getting ready to sneak a peek into her mother’s purse and afraid of getting caught. But I wasn’t taking a peek into a purse. I was taking a peek into the past. And I wasn’t afraid of getting caught but of what I’d find.
You can still get back in your car and go home, little girl.
I looked back at my car, red paint sparkling in the sunshine. It was a pretty car…reliable…half tank of gas . . . faulty tire had been repaired. I’d enjoyed the ride to Gate City insofar as I’d tried to enjoy the scenery and forget my purpose for coming. I’d enjoy the ride back home, too. Wouldn’t I? Or would I be kicking myself the entire way for getting this close to some answers and then wimping out?
I glanced up at the tower once more. Then I took the steps at the left side of the courthouse, squared my shoulders and walked through the door. I asked for assistance from a smartly-dressed blonde woman and was ushered into a large records room.
“The marriage records from 1960 will be in this cabinet, filed alphabetically.”
“Thank you.”
She left, and I began looking through the M’s. Within five minutes, I’d found the record.
March, Vernon P., and Cline, Gloria A.
Cline. Not Carter.
Tears of relief pricked my eyes. I blinked rapidly and read the rest of the document.
Jane S. Cline had signed the consent form as Gloria’s mother. Yet, I knew Gloria’s mother had not consented to the marriage. Not that it really mattered to me at this point. My mother had not been married to Vern March, and she was not Jonah’s mother. I could now go home and put this part of my mystery to rest.
*
As soon as I got home, I called Violet. “Can you talk?”
“I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”
“I went to Scott County this morning. Our
mom was never married to Vern March. It was Gloria Cline.”
“Great. See? I knew you were worrying yourself for no reason.”
“And you weren’t worried? I really was afraid Jonah March was our half brother, Vi. I wonder if I should let Peggy and Joanne know they have Gloria Cline—not Gloria Carter—to blame for all Vern’s problems?”
“Well, she wasn’t responsible for all of them. Remember, Uncle Hal did run the man out of town.”
“With good reason. I have to place the blame for that squarely on Vern and . . . well, mostly on Vern.”
“Yeah. I’m glad your fears were put to rest, sis.”
“So, you truly weren’t worried at all?”
“I’ve already made peace with Mom’s past, Daphne. I hope this will help you do the same.”
“I hope so, too. Do you think I should tell Peggy March about Gloria Cline?”
“I guess so. Maybe somehow it’ll ease her mind, too.”
“Maybe so. I’ll talk with you soon.”
We rang off, and I hung up the phone. I nearly wet my pants when I turned and saw Myra standing in the doorway.
“I knocked,” she said, “but you didn’t answer. Since the door was open, I came on in. Hope you don’t mind.”
“N-not a bit.”
“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you saying something about Gloria Cline.”
“Do you know her?”
“Not really. But I know her sister . . . and you do, too.”
I frowned.
“Janey Dobbs. Janey was a Cline before she married Kellen Dobbs. Do you recall my telling you about the snack cake factory? It was Cline’s Cakes and Snacks.”
“I heard Gloria Cline once spent time in a mental institution.”
“Spent time?” Myra snorted. “She lives there. From what I’ve heard, Janey’s sister has been in the nut house since she was eighteen- or nineteen-years old. Some boy broke her heart, and she had a nervous breakdown or something.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Uh, yeah, that’s why she’s in the loony bin.”
“No, I mean, we all have our teenage heartbreaks. Was something wrong with her to begin with?”
“You mean, did she have what folks used to call ‘a delicate condition?’ Something like that?”
I nodded.
“I don’t know; but you’d think so, wouldn’t you? If they locked up everybody who’s ever been heartbroken, very few of us would be out wandering around.”
“I sure wouldn’t be.”
“Me, either.” She giggled. “I guess you and I come from sturdier stock than poor old Gloria Cline.”
“Apparently so,” I said. But I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to Gloria’s story than I knew. I silently cursed myself for reading every Victoria Holt novel ever written and tried to put Gloria out of my mind.
When Myra left, I listened to my answering machine messages. The first was from Candy:
“Daphne, it’s me. Candy. I positively cannot thank you enough for the wonderful cake you made. I’ve saved you a piece of it, so you come on by the store and get it, okay? Thanks again, sweetie. You do great work. I’m tellin’ everybody!”
Candy apparently was sincere with regard to being head of my marketing department. The next call was a potential client.
“Hello, Ms. Martin. I’m Belinda Fremont, and I’m planning a party for my precious Guinevere. I’d like to talk with you, so give me a call as soon as possible.”
She left her home, pager and cell numbers. Surely, I’d be able to reach her on one of them.
The final message was from Ben.
“Hi, Daph. Give me a call when you get in. Thanks.”
My first call back was to Belinda Fremont. She answered promptly but refused to discuss business over the phone.
“Please bring some cake samples and your portfolio to my home at 143 Wedgwood Street at three-thirty p.m. today.”
“All right,” I said as brightly as I could. “I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
I’d been so depressed over the Yodel Watson situation and its effect on my business that I’d neglected to stock my freezer with as many sample cakes as I should have. I looked at the clock. It was a quarter past eleven. I’d have to work quickly.
I checked the freezer and did have a square spice cake on hand. I sat it on the counter to thaw. Candy was saving me a piece of the Mocha Madeira—that was two samples. I needed three more sample cakes.
I hurriedly thumbed through my cookbooks and came up with an almond pound cake, a strawberry cake and a chocolate peanut butter cake. I mixed like mad. While the cakes were baking, I made cream cheese and chocolate frostings. The cream cheese was for the spice cake, and the chocolate was for the chocolate peanut butter cake. Luckily, I had a batch of vanilla butter cream in the fridge that would work nicely with the almond pound cake and the strawberry cake.
By two-thirty, my kitchen was a disaster area; but I had four two-inch-by-one-inch cake samples to present to Mrs. Fremont. I put the samples on a lace-patterned cake square in a “Daphne’s Delectable Cakes” box, grabbed my portfolio off the desk in my office and rushed out to the car. I carefully placed the cake samples on the passenger seat and sat the portfolio against the box to further cushion the samples.
I realized I was still wearing my apron. I decided I didn’t have time to unlock the door and hang the apron up, so I merely folded it and laid it on the back seat. I got in the car and was put in that precarious position of having to hurry but having to also be very careful. If you’ve ever had to drive a woman in labor to the hospital, or drive an animal in labor to the veterinarian’s office, or drive an elaborate cake to an important function, then you know what I mean.
My first stop was Dobbs’ Pet Store. I experienced a mental speed bump when I noticed the rather large iguana standing on the counter. Thinking four cake samples was probably enough, I started back out the door.
Candy had spotted me, though. “Hi! Come on back here.”
I glanced nervously toward the counter.
“Aw, she won’t hurt you,” Kel said. “She’s been under the weather lately anyhow.”
“Put her in her cage or at least hold her a minute,” Candy said. “Daphne’s scared of her.”
With a look that told me Kel much preferred animals to people, he scooped up the lizard and cradled her against his chest.
“Thanks.” I followed Candy to the back.
“Boy-howdy, your cake was a hit.” Candy handed me a small plastic container. “It was all I could do to save you that tiny piece.”
“You didn’t have to save me a slice, but it was sweet of you to think of me.”
“Gosh, you’re welcome. Once the customers found out that cake was back here . . ..” She looked down at her turquoise sneakers. “I reckon you know the cake was for Kel.”
“I figured as much. Back when I had a real job, I always made the boss a nice birthday cake.”
She raised her head and smiled. “You did?”
“Of course. Especially since his birthday was around performance review time!”
We both laughed.
“I was afraid you’d think bad of me if you knew the cake was for Kel.”
I shook my head. “How could such a thoughtful gesture made me feel badly toward you?”
Candy gave me one of her now-anticipated hugs. I took my cake, darted past Kel and his scaly beast and got into the car. I drove to the stop sign before transferring the Mocha Madeira cake into the box with my other samples. I’d have hated for Candy to look out the shop window and wonder what I was doing with the cake she’d so painstakingly preserved for me.
I’d told Candy the truth—I didn’t feel badly toward her. The more I got to know her, the more I felt that she—and Mrs. Dobbs, for that matter—were victims of Kellen Dobbs’ manipulations.
*
I’d been impressed with the Dobbs’ house; I was impressed with Belinda Fremont’s driveway. A burnishe
d plaque on the gate assured me I was at the right place, 143 Wedgwood. I drove onto the white and terra cotta bricks, half-wishing I’d washed my car before coming here so my tires wouldn’t dirty up the intricate design. I put down my window and pressed the intercom call button to my left.
“Yes?” responded a male voice.
“I’m Daphne Martin. I have a three-thirty appointment with Mrs. Fremont.”
“Of course.”
The wrought iron gates opened to allow me entrance to the magical kingdom. I drove slowly up the pattered drive until an elegant white . . . hotel . . . appeared before me.
Remember how I said no one could accuse Janey and Kellen Dobbs of living in the low-rent district? Belinda Fremont could. And I don’t even want to hazard a guess at where that put me on the social measuring stick.
When I got close to the…estate? Mansion? Castle? . . . a man in tan slacks and a brown sweater walked down the stairs.
I put down my window once again. “Mr. Fremont?”
He chuckled. “Hardly.”
I recognized his voice as that of the gatekeeper.
“I’ll carry your packages inside,” he continued, “and then I’ll park your car. Please leave the keys in the ignition.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Valet parking? Maybe this is a hotel! Am I supposed to tip this man?
I followed him up the steps and into a Victorian-style sitting room. He sat my box and my portfolio side by side on a round table in the middle of the room.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Fremont you’re here.” He grinned. “Good luck.”
He left the room before I could ask what he’d meant by that. I went to stand by the fireplace where a small fire knocked the chill off the room. I’m no historian by any means, but the love seat and high backed chairs made me think they were done in the Louis XIV style. The paintings on the walls and the photographs on the mantle were of people dressed in the style of the early 1900s. The women had parasols and dresses with cinched waists and bustles. The gentlemen wore bowlers and had ridiculous moustaches.