by Karen Young
Beatrice wore her reading glasses and was holding the current bestseller from one of her favorite authors. In spite of the fact that she was on page eleven, she didn’t have a clue what she’d just read, so she closed the book. She was holding it against her chest when Franklin appeared.
“If Percy Jenkins doesn’t do something about that barking dog,” he said, “I’ll be forced to give him a friendly call.”
She realized she hadn’t noticed a barking dog until he mentioned it. “It won’t do any good,” she told him. “Percy has got to be one of the most cantankerous men in town. If you complain, I promise you he’ll go out of his way to train that dog to bark all night instead of just half the night. Your best bet is to write an editorial.”
He chuckled as he unbuttoned his shirt. “I accept that I’m no longer living in Boston, sweetheart, but my editorials will not sink to that level.”
She rose up slightly and placed the book on her bedside table without bothering to mark her place. Next, she slipped her glasses off and put them on top of the book. “Do you miss it?”
“Boston?” He stuck his head around the bathroom door to look at her, toothbrush in hand. “I miss the museums and the cool summers, but not the snow, the crowds, the traffic and the taxes.” He disappeared inside again, still talking. “And because of you, my darling, I gladly put up with the heat and the bugs and the sultry humidity of the Delta, even Percy Jenkins’ irritating dog.”
She heard him brushing his teeth, then shutting off the water. And in a minute or two, he was out of the bathroom and heading for the bed. As always, he slept only in boxer shorts. No matter the weather, cold or hot or in-between, just boxer shorts. She remembered before they were married and the first time she saw him without his clothes, which always looked a little too large and mostly mismatched. He looked a lot better without them than in them. Granted, she didn’t see a lot of naked men, but it didn’t take much experience to appreciate one like Franklin. Her greatest regret was that she hadn’t been married to him when she was young and looked her best.
He climbed into bed and, instead of settling under the covers, propped on his elbow, sensing her mood. “Something bothering you, love?”
Beatrice turned onto her side to face him. “Anne.”
His glance shifted to her clock radio. “She’s not a teenager, Bea. She’s probably with Buck. And she has a key.”
“I wasn’t suggesting a curfew.” She put out a hand and cradled his jaw, letting her thumb caress his lips. She loved the shape—and taste—of Franklin’s beautiful mouth. “I didn’t mention it to you, but Victoria stopped by for a private word with Anne. It was a week or so ago. Anne was very upset.”
“What was on her mind? Victoria’s mind, I mean. Let me guess, Anne’s article that didn’t portray Pearce as God’s gift to Mississippi.”
“That, too, but she seems more worried about Anne looking into the archives and possibly stumbling on something that Pearce’s opponent could use against him in the campaign. She actually asked Anne to stop, which only fired up her curiosity.”
She made to withdraw her hand, but Franklin brought it to his mouth and pressed a sweet kiss into her palm, then held it against his heart. “And then what happened?”
“Exactly what anybody but Victoria would expect. Anne’s nose for news is now twitching like mad. Her interest was purely casual before Victoria’s visit, but now she’s wondering what her mother-in-law doesn’t want her to find.”
“If that’s so, why hasn’t she spent more time at the Spectator scrutinizing those archives? She turns her assignments in days before deadline, giving her ample opportunity.”
Beatrice settled back on her pillow and looked up at the ceiling. “She has something else on her mind besides her job and Whitaker family secrets, Franklin. She’s determined to find her biological parents.”
“Ah.”
“Mildred Pinkston called me.”
He blinked. “The librarian?”
“Yes. Anne has spent a good deal of time using the library computer lately.”
“Huh. I don’t know what concerns me more, the fact that Anne is surfing the Internet at the library instead of using one at the Spectator, or that Mildred Pinkston felt compelled to tattle something that’s absolutely none of her business.”
“It wouldn’t happen in Boston, would it?”
He laughed softly. “No, it wouldn’t. Add that to the list of things I admit I miss.”
“Anne is not going to let this go, Frank. At least twice she’s mentioned a fear of something in her genetic background that may be a factor in her difficulty to get pregnant. I keep telling her she has nothing to worry about, but nothing I say makes any difference. She’s determined to open Pandora’s box.”
“She was always as stubborn as a little mule.” He glanced at his wife. “Now, genetics may play a part there.”
“Stubbornness is learned behavior,” Beatrice shot back. “She picked it up from you.”
“I’m reasonable, not stubborn,” he said with a wicked light in his eyes.
She sighed. “Oh, Frank, it’s just a matter of time before she comes to you and begins asking all sorts of questions. In fact, I don’t know why she hasn’t. I just hope—”
He shushed her by laying a finger on her lips. After a moment, he lay back, his arms behind his head. “I’m not surprised that she’s fired up about this again. I assume it’s that miscarriage driving her this time, but she’s always had a keen curiosity about her biological parents. Actually, I think her mother encouraged her interest.”
“Her mother.”
He turned his head and smiled at her. “Laura.”
“Why, do you think?”
“Why encourage her? I’m not sure, but Laura knew, because of her illness, that she would not live a long life. Multiple sclerosis was going to take her and there would be many years when Anne would be without family except for me. Laura was simply delighted when she married, thinking Buck with his roots going back five generations would fill the void. Of course, she knew nothing about Victoria Whitaker’s personality.”
Beatrice set her teeth and crossed her arms over her breasts. “Sometimes I think the woman was a saint.”
“I assume you refer to Laura and not Victoria,” Franklin said, still smiling.
“I certainly wouldn’t refer to Victoria Whitaker as a saint.”
“Hmm.” He rose slightly and leaned over to kiss her, then settled back and said deadpan, “Just for the record, I’d rather be married to a beautiful, sexy, slightly jealous Southern woman than to a saint.”
“I am not jealous.”
“Oh, did you think I was referring to you? Heck, I was just speaking hypothetically.”
Beatrice suddenly yanked his pillow out from under his head and hit him with it. Laughing, he fended her off, then caught her and pulled her over on top of him. She made a brief, halfhearted pretence of trying to wiggle off, but when she realized the effect it had on him, it was her turn to laugh. “Gotcha,” she said softly.
“You are so right, love.” Franklin wrapped both arms around her and sighed with satisfaction. “You feel so good, soft and womanly.” He buried his nose in her hair. “Smell good, too. God, I am the luckiest man alive.”
She raised her head. “You better believe it, buster.”
He spent a moment simply looking at her, letting his eyes wander over her face. “I do, my darling.”
She settled back with her head tucked beneath his chin, a hand on his chest. “What will you say when Anne tells you what she’s doing?”
“What would you like me to say, Bea?”
“The truth. Tell her the truth.”
Sixteen
Anne was reading a Spectator account of a drought in the fifties when Claire appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Am I interrupting?”
“No, of course not.” Anne waved a hand at the uninteresting array of shelves, boxes and Spectator memorabilia. “What’s to interrup
t down here?”
Midway down the stairs, Claire paused with a look of amazement. “Well, kiss my grits! Paige was right. You have transformed this place.” In smart black gaucho pants, a honey-gold sweater and boots, she sauntered on down to the bottom of the stairs. “Honey, you’re wasted in the archives of this musty ol’ paper. Anybody who could organize a hundred years of pure crap like this should be on TV. What’s that show on the Home and Garden channel, something about organizin’ stuff? That’s where you would shine.”
Because she was familiar with the show and actually liked it, Anne smiled. “Anybody with a broom and dustpan, a roll of paper towels and spray cleanser could accomplish the same result.”
“That would only clean it up,” Claire said, scrutinizing date labels. “I’m talking about the absence of chaos. Your daddy’s gonna hate to see you go back to St. Louis.” She turned in time to catch Anne’s grimace. “Aw, don’t get that look on your face. Buck’ll wear you down. He’ll sweet-talk you into going back and next thing you’ll be swallowed up in his career again. Might take him a while, but he’ll do it.”
“We’ll see,” Anne said.
For a second or two, Claire simply studied her face. “You’ve got him mad as a sore-tail cat, you know that? He walks around lookin’ mean and gettin’ things done.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him lately.” He hadn’t called or dropped in to see her at the Spectator or at the Marshes’ in the two weeks since she’d refused to have sex. Which was the way she wanted it, she told herself. Often.
Claire laughed. “Maybe I’ll revise the timetable. I thought he’d stay in Tallulah ten days max. But it’s going on…what? Five or six weeks now. I don’t know what y’all are at odds over, but my money’s on him dragging you back to St. Louis…as soon as you bring him around to your way of thinkin’, that is.”
Anne sighed. “Is all of Tallulah discussing Buck’s marital problems?”
“Not so much Buck’s problems, but your contrariness.” Claire strolled across the floor to inspect the neat working station Anne had set up for herself. “He’s Tallulah’s favorite son, their hero. So of course, they’re discussing what’s gone wrong with the crazy woman who luckily finds herself married to him and doesn’t want to kiss his feet every day.”
Anne laughed out loud at that. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s all my fault. Have you been sent to bring me to my senses?”
“Moi?” Claire spread the fingers of one hand over her breastbone. “Bite your tongue. No, I’m the last person they’d send to knock sense into anyone.” She moved to a shelf loaded with neatly labeled boxes.
“Lordy,” she murmured, then turned to look at Anne. “This place was an unholy mess. And now look, neat and organized. You know what? You and Buck really are a matched pair. He’s stepped in and done the same thing at Belle Pointe.”
“Things at Belle Pointe were an unholy mess? Considering what I’ve heard about Victoria’s ability to manage, I find that hard to believe.”
“And don’t forget she’s a control freak, too.”
“Which is why I’m skeptical.”
“Actually, Victoria’s not young anymore, not that she’d admit it even if you put a gun to her head. In fact, I think she’s looking downright peaked lately.” She stopped, looked around. “Is smoking allowed down here?”
“I’m sorry, no. The place is full of old paper and aging artifacts. In a fire, they’d go up like tinder.”
“Sure.” Claire slipped her fingers into the front pockets of her slacks and sashayed over to a wall of photos. “Where was I? Oh, yeah. Victoria and Belle Pointe. Well, she wouldn’t admit that lately production has been slipping, as has the quality of the cotton, which is trouble with a big T. Poor Will Wainwright tried to keep up, but with Victoria’s constant interference—she called it guidance—and Will being nearly seventy with diabetes and high blood pressure, it was hopeless. Anyway, along comes Buck who, thanks to you, is stuck in Tallulah whether he likes it or not and with a proven knack for farming. Don’t think my mother-in-law didn’t seize on that like a hungry cat on a bird.”
“Frankly, I don’t think she had to try very hard. He was bound to be bored without baseball to focus on.”
“He could have focused on you.”
“And I’d have to be willing. As you see, I have other fish to fry.”
Claire chuckled delightedly. With her hands clasped behind her, she bent to study a few of the framed photos on the wall. Pausing before a 1975 Chamber of Commerce gathering, she pointed to a tall man. “Look, there’s John Whitaker. The older Buck gets, the more he looks like him.”
Buck was so much like his father that Anne could have guessed who he was without the identifying caption.
“And here’s Victoria,” Claire said, picking out the lone woman in the group. Her tone went noticeably flat. “Chamber President. She only quit last year.”
“I was struck by the number of photos of Whitakers and their ancestors in the archives,” Anne said.
“Not just ancestors,” Claire said, peering at a series of baseball photos of Buck from middle school to recent shots in his Jacks uniform.
“Dad pulled those out of the archives after we got married and framed them,” Anne explained. “Buck was a little embarrassed when he saw them.”
“Who’s this guy? He looks familiar.” Claire gazed at a uniformed soldier.
“Paige said the same thing when she found the write-up in an old issue in the sixties.” Anne looked at the youthful face. “He was Tallulah’s only casualty in the Vietnam war.”
Claire peered closely at the caption under the photo. “Rudy Baker. Hmm, don’t know why I thought—” Catching sight of another more recent photo, she moved on to study it. “Here’s the ribbon-cutting ceremony when they dedicated the Whitaker Library.”
“The family figured so large in the community that the Spectator is practically a repository for their history,” Anne said. “Paige has become very interested in her family’s past.”
Claire turned to look at Anne. “Paige is the reason I dropped in to see you, Anne. I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for her. Since spending so much time with you, she’s had a major attitude adjustment. I don’t know your secret, but whatever it is, please don’t stop.”
“I don’t know that I’ve done anything.” Anne leaned against her makeshift desk thoughtfully. “We get along fine now, but when I first came, she was—”
“Rebellious, call it what it was,” Claire said. “Not that she’s an angel now, but she used to refer to time spent at the Spectator as torture, only one step up from working on a chain gang. Now, I honestly think she’d come here anyway. She likes poking around in this old stuff. She likes finding connections to a past that’s pretty unique. And she really admires you.”
“It goes both ways. She probably has a very bright future, Claire.”
“My other prayer,” Claire added in a heartfelt voice, “is that she’ll soon get over needing to shock folks, including me. Do you know what she said one night at the dinner table?”
Knowing how Paige delighted in getting a rise out of adults, Anne wouldn’t hazard a guess.
“She asked was it possible that Jack Breedlove could be her real father.”
“And everyone reacted with…let me guess, shock,” Anne said laughing. She could easily imagine Victoria Whitaker’s reaction.
“I’m just thankful she didn’t ask Jack outright,” Claire said, almost moaning with the memory. “He stopped us one morning because I was speeding in a school zone. I was pretty rattled that it was Jack. And Paige picked up on it instantly. She’s so…so…”
“Observant?”
“Yes, she saw right away that Jack and I…that we…”
“Had history?”
Claire met Anne’s eyes squarely. “Which you already knew. That’s another reason I wanted to see you, Anne. The night you and Buck came to dinner, I’d had too much wine and I said things I sho
uldn’t have. I’m sure I shocked you.” She made a face. “Maybe that’s where Paige gets her smart mouth. Anyway, I just wanted to set something straight. I’m not having an affair with Jack Breedlove.”
Anne blinked in surprise. “I never thought you were, Claire. My goodness, have I said something that—”
“No, no. It’s just that I was…” She looked away with a nervous laugh. “This is really embarrassing, but I needed to be sure you didn’t get the wrong idea.”
“I didn’t get any idea, Claire,” she said quietly.
“Except that I drink too much, right?”
“Well…”
Claire rushed on, “Pearce wants to force me into rehab, not for the desire to help me, but to prevent the possibility of me embarrassing him during the campaign. But I’m not going to let him do it. I’ve been going to an AA group since, although nobody in my family knows it. And I haven’t had a drink. It’ll take a while—a long while—before I can regain the respect and trust of the people I care about, especially Paige, but I’m working on it.”
“I’m very happy to hear that, Claire.”
“And about Jack…I just wanted to…” She swallowed hard. “I just wanted to clear that up.”
“Consider it cleared up,” Anne said in a gentle voice.
Claire nodded as if a difficult chore was completed and slipped the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “Thanks for listening.”
Anne, still smiling, said, “What are friends for?”
As Claire climbed the stairs, Anne smiled faintly as she stored away the microfiche and closed out her laptop. It was strange and incomprehensible the things that pushed people to finally make life-changing decisions. She snapped off the lights and climbed the stairs. Franklin’s small staff was already gone and as she passed his desk, Anne saw that he was on the phone. He waved to her, mouthing, “See you at home.”