A heavy sigh echoed through the line. “That’s quite a mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Honey Belle.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Tess. I’ll understand if you say no.”
Silence.
“Aunt Tess, are you there?”
“It’s my house, Honey Belle. There’ll be rules to follow, and that includes your mama and daddy, too. Church on Sunday, and no smoking or drinking.”
Honey Belle’s knees buckled with relief. She leaned against the glass pane in the phone booth to keep from collapsing. “Thank you, Aunt Tess. I promise we’ll only stay until we can find a place of our own.”
“You’ve just said your daddy is dying and you’re worried about your mama’s health. My sister always was bullheaded. We’ll get her to a doctor. In the meantime, don’t worry about finding a rental house. There are times when this old mausoleum I live in gets a little lonely.”
“Mama will be pleased when I tell her.”
“Call me when you get to the bus station. I’ll come get y’all.”
Honey Belle purchased three bus tickets to Valdosta, Georgia. For a moment she felt like a child off on a big expedition, unafraid, seeking adventure. Then she thought of Judge Hartwell. She no longer felt childlike.
****
Three suitcases sat in the middle of the living room floor. The sum total of their lives stuffed into three suitcases. Honey Belle pulled out a chair and joined her parents at the kitchen table.
Breakfast was strained. The scrambled eggs turned cold, the toast dried, and the coffee was bitter. No one seemed to notice.
Confusion, anger and disappointment gnawed at Honey Belle. There was no denying that never seeing Tripp again left an aching emptiness in her heart.
Delilah Garrett broke the silence. “What’s the matter, daughter?”
Visibly startled by her mother’s voice, Honey Belle’s gaze flashed to her. “I don’t know…everything.”
Surprisingly, her mother had an answer for both. “I guess it’s come as a shock to you, knowing I was right about that boy never marrying you. Once we get settled at my sister’s, you’ll forget all about him.”
Honey Belle felt as if her blood pressure had risen several notches above normal.
“Delilah,” Jack Garrett wheezed, “you’re always pickin’. Pick…pick…pick. For once, leave Honey Belle alone.” Honey Belle rose from her chair and gathered the plates.
A touch of sarcasm crept into Delilah’s voice. “Dump the scraps out the back door. Let the neighborhood cats feast. And never mind about washing the dishes. Old man Ellerby never done us no favors. He can pay someone to clean this dump.”
It was time to go. Time to say goodbye to the only home Honey Belle had ever known. She’d had the same bed, the same quilt, the same pictures on the wall, for as long as she could remember.
She managed to smile. It was hard to smile when she knew she’d never see Tripp again. She wouldn’t let herself think about him. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, fighting the sting behind her eyelids as tears threatened to push through. She couldn’t cry.
“Come on, Daddy. Let me help you to the truck.”
He touched her arm and smiled in a way that said he understood the depth of her emotions.
Chapter Twelve
Change was in the air. August drifted into September. Indian summer set in. A week after Honey Belle’s hasty departure from South Carolina, Tripp’s plane touched down at Charleston’s airport.
A white-hot need rose like an electrical storm inside the apex of Tripp’s groin. It didn’t matter that he was the son of a prominent judge with influential friends and important political connections. Tripp was anxious to hold the woman he loved in his arms. A week away from Honey Belle seemed like an eternity.
While in Massachusetts, the thought occurred to him that he didn’t know her phone number.
Eager to talk to her, he’d dialed information. The operator said, “What city are you calling?”
“Charleston, South Carolina, a listing for Garret at 1423 Barrington Street.”
“One moment please.”
Tripp had pen and paper ready to scribble down the phone number.
“I’m sorry, sir. There is no listing for a Garrett at that address.”
“Are you sure?” What about—” He’d never asked Honey Belle the names of her mother or father. “Never mind, Operator.”
He thought it odd that an upper middle class family had no phone listing. He knew her father was very ill. The idea of Honey Belle not having a telephone bothered him. He wondered what she’d do in case she had to contact the doctor or call for an ambulance. Doubt crept in. He’d shoved the thought aside. After all, some folks preferred private telephone numbers. His family did.
Tomorrow, he’d take her shopping for an engagement ring. Depending on his mother’s state of mind, he’d ask her to plan an intimate dinner party for Honey Belle and her parents. Then he’d formally ask permission for her hand in marriage.
Tripp knew the Judge would object to his marrying before graduating from law school. He’d cross that bridge when the subject presented itself.
Tonight, Tripp planned to drive Honey Belle to their favorite place on the beach, drink champagne and make wild passionate love to her. He’d tell her about the furnished cottage he’d rented within walking distance of the university, and the beauty of the changing leaves. He hoped she had a warm coat for the cold Massachusetts winters. It didn’t matter. He’d buy her a new one.
As he rode the elevator up to the airport’s VIP parking garage, he envisioned Honey Belle’s velvety lavender eyes glittering with tears of happiness, throwing her arms around his neck and showering him with hot, moist kisses.
He presented the claim ticket to the parking valet, and eagerly waited while the attendant returned with the BMW.
Speeding down Route One, his first stop was at a florist shop, where he purchased a dozen long-stemmed red roses.
Fighting cross-town traffic, an hour later he parked in front of Honey Belle’s house. He smoothed his windblown hair, gathered the box of roses in his arms, calmed his pattering heart and, with a jaunty step, strode up the sidewalk.
Standing on the porch, he again ran a hand over his hair to smooth down the windblown wispy ends. He rang the doorbell and waited.
“Yes, may I help you?”
He stared at the elderly woman standing behind the screened door. Surely this wasn’t Honey Belle’s mother. Though she rarely spoke of her mother and had never described her, Tripp tried to hide some of his dismay. Perhaps this woman, with hair the color of snow, was possibly the grandmother.
His cleared his throat. “Is Honey Belle home?”
“I’m sorry. No one by that name lives here.”
“Are you sure?” Tripp felt almost as inadequate as the question he ask.
“Young man, seventy years ago, I was born in this house. Fifty years ago, my husband and I were wedded in the back yard. I would certainly know who lives in my house, and I assure you the only Honey Belle I’m familiar with is the tangerine.”
Tripp shifted the box of roses from one arm to the other. “Forgive me, ma’am. I don’t mean to be insistent. You see, for the past two months I’ve dated a young woman named Honey Belle Garrett. I picked her up at this address and brought her back home to this address.”
“Oh, that young woman, the one who stood under the elm tree?”
He glanced off in the direction of the tree, trying to make sense of the woman’s words. “Yes, ma’am. She said she lived here, in this house.”
“You seem like an honest young man. What is your name?”
“Tripp Hartwell.”
“I knew a T. Harlan Hartwell. He handled the legal affairs for my late husband. Might you be related?”
A mixture of impatience and irritated confusion consumed Tripp. He wanted to find out about Honey Belle, not discuss his father. “Possibly my father. He’s a judge now.”
Her eyes widened with disce
rnment. “I declare. Isn’t this a fine howdy-do? Meeting Harlan’s son. My-my.”
“Ma’am, my girlfriend said her father suffered from a serious heart condition. Maybe she was afraid our dating might upset him, and decided to meet me here instead of at her house.” Tripp glanced over his shoulder at the neatly trimmed yards bursting with colorful azaleas. “Do you know which house belongs to the Garretts?”
As if trusting Tripp, the elderly woman opened the screened door and stepped onto the veranda. “Do you know the history of Barrington Street, young Mr. Hartwell?”
In some ways the woman reminded him of his mother: hair neatly coiffed, a single strand of pearls around her neck, the blue floral dress with a white circular collar seeming out of place for a casual day at home.
To hide his growing impatience, Tripp placed his free hand inside a pants pocket and fiddled with the loose change. “I’m afraid I must plead ignorance, ma’am.”
She swept her hand toward the porch swing at the end of the veranda. “Shall we sit?”
Tripp inwardly groaned. “Ma’am, I’d like to—”
The woman offered him a crinkled smile and walked to the swing. She patted the seat. “Of course you’d like to hear. It’s warm outside. Shall I call for the maid to pour us some lemonade?”
He reminded himself a southern gentleman didn’t hurt old ladies’ feelings. In a rush he sat beside her, refusing the refreshment. “Another time, ma’am. I’m recently home from registering at Harvard. My parents are expecting me. I wouldn’t want to worry my mother.”
“Well, then, I’ll give you the shortened version. You see, the homes on Barrington Street managed to survive the ravages of the Civil War. Most who live here are descendants of those who fought and died with the great southern generals. Folks on Barrington Street have known each other since we were children. The Garden Club ladies work diligently to preserve the charm and dignity that has survived for over a hundred years.”
Tripp’s fingers worried the red bow adorning the flower carton. He had a bad feeling. “What about the Garretts?”
She touched his arm. “I’m sorry to say, as long as I’ve lived here I’ve never known of any Garretts.”
Tripp felt like laughing and cursing at the same time. “I don’t understand. Why would Honey Belle lie to me?”
The elderly woman turned a sympathetic smile toward him. “Your mother is Mary Alice Hartwell, is she not?”
“Yes. You know her?”
“Not directly. Like myself, your mother is from a long line of South Carolinian bluebloods.” A laugh escaped her. “That sounded perfectly snobbish, didn’t it?”
Tripp responded with a lift of an eyebrow. “What does this have to do with my girl friend?”
“Does this young woman fully understand who you are?”
“I’m not certain I follow you.”
“Of course you do, young Mr. Hartwell. You’ve been raised in the South. Even in this modern day and time, family name and accomplishments are often the most important considerations in marriage. In some cases, they are the only consideration.”
Some bright gold leaves fluttered and fell to the ground, indicating the approach of Indian summer. Tripp’s heart fluttered and felt as if it were falling, too. “A person should be judged on their merits, not which side of the fence they were born on.”
“If your young lady preferred to stand under the elm tree until you arrived, never introduced you to her parents, used my house as her decoy, and never invited you to sit on the porch swing to do a little sparking…” She drew a deep breath as if allowing Tripp to absorb her words.
Tripp’s throat tightened, his stomach clenched. “Honey Belle didn’t have to lie. She could have trusted our love. Trusted me.”
The woman said nothing else right away. After a few moments, she comforted, “As idealistic as it sounds, the affairs of the heart are never easy, young Mr. Hartwell.” She rose from the swing. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t tolerate the heat as well as I did when I was young.”
Tripp stood, too. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”
He walked down the steps toward the convertible, his thoughts troubled more than he could admit. He pulled the car door open and got in, tossing the box of roses to the back seat.
****
Tripp needed answers. Why had Honey Belle misled him?
Thirty minutes later he pulled into the Burger Bin’s parking lot. This time he didn’t bother with his wind-mussed hair.
The blast of cold air from the restaurant’s interior sent a momentary chill through his sweat-soaked shirt. He removed his sunglasses. Carla stood behind the counter.
“Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t the college boy returned home. What can I getcha?”
“I need to speak to Honey Belle.”
With a shrug of her shoulders, Carla offered a whimsical smile. “Don’t we all? The day after you left, she called in saying her mama was sick. H.B. came in ’bout an hour later to pick up an order of chicken fingers and fries. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since.”
“Why do you call her H.B.?”
“Guess you didn’t know Honey Belle hated her name. Said ‘Honey’ sounded cheap, and ‘Belle’ sounded old. ’Round here, we all called her H.B.”
“Can you take a break, Carla? I’m confused as hell.”
Without hesitation, the stout waitress called over her shoulder, “Leanne, take the counter. I’m gonna have a smoke.” She looked at Tripp. “Want a cola?” Without waiting for an answer, she filled two cups with ice and cola, then walked around the counter. She indicated with a nod. “We’ll sit in the booth by the window.”
Tripp followed the girl and slid in opposite her. After a healthy swallow of the cold drink, he set the cup aside, then explained about driving to the house on Barrington Street.
“I don’t understand why she lied, Carla.”
The waitress chided Tripp. “For a college boy, you ain’t as smart as I thought you were.” She giggled. “Uh-oh, by the expression on your face, I’ve upset you. Sorry.”
Heat grew under Tripp’s collar. Heat that had nothing to do with the weather. He worked to squelch the insults forming deep in his throat. “Maybe you’d better enlighten me.”
“Okay. First, didn’t you ever put two and two together about H.B. driving a twenty-year-old beat-up truck? And second, did you ever ask yourself why a girl who was supposed to live in a fancy neighborhood was flippin’ hamburgers in a joint like this?”
He opened his mouth to speak. Carla held up her hand. She placed her lips around the straw and drew deeply. “I told her sooner or later you’d find out. Now that you have, how does it feel to be made a fool of?”
He swallowed against the pressure squeezing his chest. Blood pounded in his temples.
He shrugged his shoulders, dismissing Carla’s snide remark. “I tried to call Honey Belle from Massachusetts. There was no listing.”
“Nah, they don’t have a phone; always had to use a neighbor’s.”
“Maybe she had to put her father in the hospital. You said her mother called in sick. Maybe she’s in the hospital, too.” He reached across the table and clasped Carla’s hand. “Look, I don’t care where Honey Belle lives. Give me the address and I’ll drive out to check on her.”
Carla withdrew her hand from his. “The reason H.B. never wanted you to know where she lived is because it’s in the worst section of all Charleston. You ever heard of Shanty Groves?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s not a safe place for rich folks in fancy cars. Besides, I drove out to check on her. She ain’t there. Neighbor said they were gone. Loaded up the truck with a coupla suitcases and left.”
“Did he say where they went?”
“Nope, just that they were always behind on the rent. He figured the landlord gave ’em the boot.”
“Even if that were the case, Honey Belle and her mother still had their jobs. Maybe they went to a temporary shelter.”
/> “Listen, Tripp, I ain’t the brightest cookie in the jar, but I’ve been around the block a time or two. You’re rich, H.B. is dirt poor. You’re on your way to becoming an even richer somebody. She quit school when she was sixteen to help support her folks. She’s never gonna have two nickels to rub together. H.B. is who she is and you’re who you are. You think your high-falutin’ society parents would ever accept a girl from the wrong side of the tracks?”
As if to cool her throat from her long dissertation, Carla drew a generous sip of cola through the straw. “I don’t know why she left. Wherever she and her folks went, it’s my guess they ain’t comin’ back. For the both of you, take my advice and leave it be. Go get your lawyer’s degree. Marry a rich girl, raise yourself a couple of spoiled young’uns, and forget about Honey Belle Garrett.”
With his heart racing and bile rising in his throat, he pushed from the booth. Deep in his heart, he knew everything Carla had stated was true.
“I’ll deal with my parents, Carla. Once they meet Honey Belle and get to know her, they’ll come to love her as I do.”
“Um-huh. If that’s what you want to believe to make yourself feel better,” Carla shrugged a shoulder, “you keep right on believing it.”
As much as he hated to admit it, she was correct in her assumption. He’d been raised in the caste system of the South, where family name and accomplishments were often the most important consideration in marriage. As far as his parents and South Carolina’s social registry were concerned, it was the only consideration. Until meeting Honey Belle, he’d never rebelled against this system of antiquated social snobbery.
Tripp pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled his phone number on a napkin. “If Honey Belle contacts you, please give her my number. Tell her it’s important, that no matter what, I love her.”
Carla puffed her stout cheeks and blew a breathy, “Sure.”
An uneasy feeling twisted Tripp’s gut. He held little hope of ever hearing from the woman who had stolen his heart.
Chapter Thirteen
A few minutes later Tripp sat behind the wheel of his car, easing into traffic and then turning on the street leading out of the city limits.
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