Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “How sad,” Mary Scarlett sighed, feeling tears sting her eyes.

  “But the party goes on,” Granny Boo said in a cheery and surprisingly youthful voice. “Each night here at Bonaventure you can hear music and the tinkle of smashing crystal. I expect my own long-lost love will turn up one of these nights.”

  “I never knew Great-Grandpa Horace.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He was a good enough husband, but not the man I loved.”

  “Granny Boo!”

  “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m in Heaven, after all. You get your wishes up here, all the good things denied you during life. But now to business. Where’s my mirror?”

  Mary Scarlett reached to the floor beside the bed. “I brought it to my room. I was afraid they might smash it.”

  “Good girl! From the sound of things down in the parlor, you’re probably right. Now I want you to close your eyes, hold the mirror before your face, then look to see who the love of your life truly is. We’ll settle the matter this minute.”

  Gripping the gilt-framed antique, Mary Scarlett did as she was instructed. When she opened her eyes, she gasped.

  “So! You know at last,” Granny Boo said smugly. “I told you it would work. Which man is it—Bolton Conrad or Allen Overman? Tell me quickly, dear.”

  “It’s neither,” Mary Scarlett whispered.

  “Who then?”

  “Jacques St. Julian.” She glanced up at the other mirror where her granny’s violet image still glowed. “What does it mean?”

  “It means that you must never marry until you love a man the way Louise loved Jacques St. Julian. Obviously, he has come back, looking for his own lost love in you, Mary Scarlett.”

  The thought of such a thing was staggering. “How will I ever find him?”

  “Your heart will know. Give it time.”

  “There is no time! Bolt’s building me a house. Allen has already shown Mama the antique sapphire and diamond ring that all the brides in his family have worn for generations.”

  “Which man’s kisses make your heart flutter the way Jacques’ did?”

  “Both … neither!” Mary Scarlett stammered. “I don’t know. Bolt keeps pushing so hard to get married. He wants to put me in a house closed in by a picket fence. Allen just keeps pushing. I’m not sure he cares about marriage so much as just getting me in his bed. It’s my life, my decision! I wish they’d all leave me be!”

  Granny Boo laughed heartily. “That’s what I wanted to hear—a bit of piss and vinegar from my girl. You have your answer, Mary Scarlett. Go, child. Now!” Granny Boo’s familiar voice began to fade along with her image. “Don’t you marry a soul until you see him in my mirror.”

  “But I can’t just run away. What would Mama say? And, oh, how Savannah would gossip! If I go, it will cause a terrible scandal.”

  “Go, go, go-o-o-o…” The single word swooped and surged through the dark room like a hurricane wind.

  An hour later, the sound of the train on its tracks seemed to echo Granny Boo’s final admonition. For better or worse, Mary Scarlett Lamar was leaving Savannah, fleeing north through the night into the unknown.

  Only one thing did she regret leaving behind—Granny Boo’s magic mirror. Without the mirror, how on earth was she supposed to find her man?

  One

  Bolton Conrad couldn’t believe his eyes. By accident he had opened The Savannah Morning News to the society page instead of the sports section. Her name jumped out at him with all the force of a mule-kick to the gut. After he started breathing again, he chuckled. It was either laugh or cry, and he just plain didn’t have any more tears left to shed over Mary Scarlett.

  “Savannah’s survived earthquakes, fires, yellow fever epidemics, hurricanes, and General William Tecumseh Sherman. But I’m not sure the old city will live through this.”

  Wondering if his eyes could be deceiving him, he took a second, harder look at the paper spread before him on his breakfast table.

  Hardly a column-inch in length, the seemingly insignificant item was tucked away in the society column along with the mundane details of card parties, out-of-town visitors, and spring wedding showers. Nevertheless, the announcement in Savannah’s most read morning newspaper was sure to set phones ringing and tongues wagging all over the city.

  The item was conspicuous for what it did not say about the lady in question.

  Mary Scarlett Lamar, former Savannah resident and debutante, has returned to this city after an extended stay in Europe. Her parents, the late Mr. and Mrs. Richard Habersham Lamar, were lifelong leaders of Savannah society, tracing their lineage back to several of the city’s founding fathers, including the Habershams, Davenports, and Robillards. Mr. Lamar was a member of the Oglethorpe Club. Mrs. Lamar was a past president of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Miss Lamar is an honor graduate of Sweet Briar College, Class of 1988. Her many friends will be happy to welcome her back to the city after such a long absence.

  The morning sun off the Savannah River cast watery light over the ballast stone walls of Bolton Conrad’s converted warehouse loft. His jam-smeared toast poised in mid-bite, he finished reading the item for the third time, one dark eyebrow arched in an attitude of consternation. He had figured that if Mary Scarlett ever did come back, she’d sneak into town unannounced, wanting to call as little attention to her return as possible.

  The phone rang. His gaze still fixed on the paper, his mind still trying to comprehend the meaning of Mary Scarlett’s return, he put the receiver to his ear. “Yes?” he said absently.

  “It’s Allen, Bolt. Have you seen the morning paper?”

  Conrad pictured Allen Overman at the other end of the line. The tall, sandy-haired entrepreneur seemed wound as tight as a spring. That was nothing unusual; Allen always ran at warp speed. The only thing slow about him was his deep Southern drawl, the very trademark of leisurely, lush, historic Savannah. But this morning there was a new note in his voice. He sounded like a kid who had just found a long-lost toy or a treasure hunter who had finally struck paydirt.

  “I’m looking at the paper right now, Allen.”

  “Have you heard from her?” There was no need to identify the subject of his question.

  “No. You haven’t either?”

  “Of course not.” A subtle laugh edged with nervousness. “You’re the one she’ll call and you know it. I might have been her mama’s favorite, but with Mary Scarlett you always came first. The fair maiden’s knight in shining armor.”

  Conrad frowned. Was it starting all over again, this competition between the two of them? “No need for sarcasm, Overman.”

  “None intended.” Another laugh—jovial, placating. “Hell, I never kidded myself. I always knew the truth. We both did. Admit it.”

  “If I was such a favorite, why did she run off and marry a bullfighter?”

  “Good question, Bolt. An even better question is where is he now? Why’s she come back alone? And why’s she still using her maiden name?”

  Now it was Bolton’s turn to laugh. “You don’t think any Savannah Lamar would give up that name, do you?”

  Overman rushed on, “So what are you going to do about this?”

  “About what?”

  “About Mary Scarlett.”

  Bolt’s frown deepened. After a silent pause, he said, “Nothing. She hasn’t called and she probably won’t. After all, it’s been eight years, Allen. My guess is that she just flew in to take care of the house. I’m sure Miss Lucy’s lawyers must have notified Mary Scarlett recently to remind her of the specifics of her mother’s will. She’ll probably meet with them, settle things, then fly out before nightfall. Back to Spain and her bullfighter. We may not hear from her at all.”

  This obviously disappointed Overman. It was clear he wanted to see her. But he didn’t say that. Instead he argued, “She wouldn’t dare let that house go. Why, it’s been in her family forever. It’s built on the trust lot Oglethorpe d
eeded to one of her daddy’s ancestors back in 1733. A Yankee general used the place as his headquarters when Sherman invaded Savannah. At least one president has stayed there. The place is history. Bolt. Savannah history!”

  “The law could care less about all that or Mary Scarlett’s pedigree. If she doesn’t claim it, the old place on Bull Street will become Savannah’s newest National Historic Landmark, the property of the Telfair Academy, a museum. And that’s that, the way her mother wanted it to be.”

  Ignoring what Conrad had said about her leaving, Allen announced, “I’m going to throw a party for her. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Black tie, Saturday night, prime guest list. What do you think, Bolt?”

  “I think you’d better check it out with Mary Scarlett before you hire a caterer.”

  “Where can I reach her?”

  Bolton frowned. Allen still didn’t believe that he hadn’t heard from her. “How should I know? I told you she hasn’t contacted me. All I know is what I read in the paper.”

  “You wouldn’t hold out on an old buddy, would you?”

  “Why should I? She’s married now, Allen. The game’s over. The fat lady’s sung and we both lost out.” It still hurt to admit it.

  “Well, never you mind. I’ll find her, and when I do I have a million questions. If she calls you give me a holler, you hear?”

  “Sure, Overman. I’ll do just that.”

  Allen Overman hung up abruptly. Bolton Conrad replaced the receiver and took another bite of toast, then shoved his plate away. His appetite was gone suddenly. Mary Scarlett had a way of doing that to him.

  He stood up from the glass-top table, cinched the belt of his gray silk robe tighter about his waist, then walked over to the window that overlooked the river. It was early yet. The shops below on River Street wouldn’t open for another couple of hours. In the sunshine a ginger tabby cat preened himself on the warm cobbles. A lone tourist focused her zoom lens on a squadron of pelicans skimming the water. An old black man shuffled along, collecting aluminum cans in a crocker sack, whistling tunelessly as he went about his work. The scene below distracted Bolton’s attention only briefly. All his thoughts centered on Mary Scarlett. And all his thoughts were troubled.

  Why had she gone away eight years ago? Only three people might know the answer to that vexing question—Mary Scarlett, Miss Lucy, and Big Dick Lamar. Now one of her parents was dead, sleeping under the oaks in Bonaventure Cemetery, and the other had been missing these past six years. Only Mary Scarlett herself was left to confide her secrets. Would she tell him what had happened? Did she owe him an explanation?

  He sighed and turned from the window. “Can I stand seeing her again, knowing she’ll never be mine?”

  Weary with all the questions that kept nagging him, Bolt walked quickly toward his bedroom. It was time to get dressed, go to the office.

  “Work,” he muttered. “God bless work!”

  Twenty-three minutes later he stepped out into the humid, sun-drenched morning, locked the Bay Street entrance to his apartment, and crossed the wooden bridge walkway from Factor’s Row to the street. Ordinarily, on such a brilliant spring day he would have enjoyed the short stroll to his law office. But he was late. The call from Allen Overman and the shock of finding out that Mary Scarlett was back had interrupted his precise morning routine. He climbed into his cardinal-red Honda CRX, folding his tall frame into the low car. He held the powerful engine in check as he cruised Bull Street to Johnson Square.

  As he pulled into his parking spot, he glanced down the street in the direction of the old Lamar place. He couldn’t quite see it, but he got a mental glimpse of it. It looked like a once-beautiful matriarch—faded and sad, neglected by the sole survivor of her family, ignored by the world. The house had been locked up tight since the suspicious death of Mary Scarlett’s mother over four years ago. So far as Bolton knew, not a soul had set foot inside since the day after Lucy Lamar’s wake. Still, it was whispered about town that strange lights were seen at the attic windows on moonless nights and a woman’s voice—sometimes singing, sometimes sobbing—had been heard coming from the abandoned mansion.

  He shuddered slightly and turned away. In a city of haunted houses and lingering spirits from the past, the Lamar place held more than its share of secrets. Only Mary Scarlett, the last of her long line, still lived to recall those woeful tales.

  Pondering the past, Bolt stood too long in the street. A battered jalopy sporting a phantasmagoric paint job, obviously created by a student from SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design, whizzed by with a raucous honk of warning. Conrad leered at the speeding teenager, then turned and headed for his office.

  His private line was ringing when he walked into the room. No doubt Allen with more news of Mary Scarlett or more questions. He sank into his tobacco-colored leather chair and punched the speaker button.

  The voice that wafted into his office was like an echo from the past. “Hello, you good-lookin’, sweet-talkin’, brown-eyed hunk of lovin’.” A pause … a husky sigh. “It’s Mary Scarlett, and I’m back!”

  Bolton jerked forward, picked up the receiver, and stared at it. It was like hearing a ghost. He would recognize the sultry-sweet, magnolia-flavored whine anytime, anyplace. Hers was a voice like black moonlight, rough velvet, perfumed poison. This was Mary Scarlett all right, in all her tarnished glory.

  His gaze went automatically to the small, framed snapshot on his desk. Mary Scarlett—her bright eyes wide with wonder, her long hair, dark as night, falling over her tanned shoulders as she laughed at him from the Spanish Steps in Rome. A smoky, dreamy beauty with a woman’s smile, but wonderstruck, little-girl eyes. The picture had been taken two months after her graduation from Sweet Briar, a month after her mysterious flight from Savannah.

  He couldn’t believe she’d actually come home after all these years. He wasn’t sure he wanted to believe it. He was still in love with her. No doubt about it. Suicidally so! But she was married. Wasn’t she? Surely, not even Mary Scarlett would bring a bullfighter back to Savannah.

  With a jolt, he realized suddenly that he hadn’t actually believed the morning paper. Hearing Mary Scarlett’s voice was his first concrete confirmation of her return.

  He glanced out the window of his office, buying time, trying to convince himself that this was just any normal Monday morning in late March. Johnson Square was an eyeburning blaze of color—azaleas exploding in the hot, spring sun. The fountain threw out watery rainbows. The white obelisk marking the grave of Revolutionary War hero Nathanael Greene shimmered in dancing patches of sunlight and shade. A tourist tram rumbled by, the voice of the tour guide droning in the soft morning air. A mockingbird perched in the redbud tree just outside, making musical love to spring.

  Bolton cleared his throat. He forced a smile of welcome he knew she couldn’t see, but maybe she would hear it anyway. “Hey, Mary Scarlett.” He tried to match her playful, Southern-casual-passionate drawl, although he’d long ago sworn off games with the one and only love of his life. “How you doin’, honey? It’s been—what? Eight years?”

  “Don’t you ‘honey’ me, Bolton Conrad! You know exactly how long I’ve been gone and what I’ve been up to. Mama used to write me that she read you every last one of my letters from all over—England, France, Italy, Greece, Turkey.”

  “She did that, Lucy did. Whether I wanted to know all the gory details or not.” He chuckled, but it wasn’t really a laugh. “I refused to listen anymore after you landed in Spain.”

  “Aw, Bolt darling, you missed the best part.”

  “Thank the Lord for small favors!”

  “Why, honey, you sound jealous!” She sounded pleased.

  “Wasn’t that the way you planned it, Mary Scarlett?”

  He couldn’t keep a touch of bitterness from creeping into his voice. It had damn near killed him when she up and ran off. She’d had her reasons, he supposed. But he had promised her everything would be all right if she
would marry him. He’d meant it, too. Bolton Conrad was a man of his word and he had vowed to make Mary Scarlett the happiest woman on earth. That was the problem. She was scared to death of happiness. If you had it, you could lose it. Nothing in her privileged, blue-blooded, dysfunctional upbringing had ever prepared her for being happy. Happiness simply didn’t run in her family. Mary Scarlett never was a child like the rest of their crowd. She grew up in that great shadowed house on Bull Street amidst the shades of her ancestors, trying to live up to the best of them and make up for the worst of them. At every turn she had met with failure and frustration.

  “Bolton? Are you still there?”

  “Just like I’ve always been.”

  “You sound surprised to hear from me. Didn’t you read the notice I sent ahead to the paper? I did that for you, Bolt. I didn’t want to just barge in unannounced.”

  “I don’t believe everything I read in that mullet wrapper.”

  “Well, you can believe I’m here now, can’t you?”

  “Oh, yes! But where exactly are you, Mary Scarlett?”

  “I don’t know,” she said peevishly. “Some tacky motel down by the river. But I hardly know this place anymore. Nothing in the city looks the same.”

  “What do you mean? Savannah never changes.”

  “Oh, but it has. What are all those Union soldiers doing camped out in the Colonial Cemetery? Their bonfires were just blazing last night. Is it one of those Civil War reenactments or are they shooting another movie here?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mary Scarlett. Bonfires in the cemetery?” He shook his head, wondering if she’d had martinis for breakfast.

  “Bolt, come get me. I want out of this place.”

  “Just tell me where you are and I’ll be right there, Mary Scarlett.”

  “I told you, I don’t know. A cab driver brought me here from the airport awhile after midnight. I needed a place to stay and didn’t have a reservation and he said everywhere was full on account of the house and garden tour. So he brought me here and I hate it, Bolt. It’s awful! There’s not even a bidet.”