Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Divorced?” Mary Scarlett rasped in a harsh whisper. “Oh, for shame! And what did their families think of that? It must have been the talk of Savannah.”

  “I didn’t say they were divorced, Mary Scarlett,” Bolt answered in a serious tone. “Jimbo died of a heart attack only a year after they were married. On St. Patrick’s Day.”

  For the first time all morning, Mary Scarlett seemed at a loss for words. Finally, she said, “Poor Kathleen. I’m sorry. Jimbo was a sweet guy. I guess they were in love?” She looked to Bolton for confirmation.

  “Deeply. It took her over two years to get back out into society again. It was like her whole world ceased to exist. She still can’t bring herself to watch the parade on St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “Really?” she said. “I can’t imagine such a thing.”

  “Sure you can, Mary Scarlett. You know how your mama was after your daddy…” He paused, trying to think of the most sensitive word to use. Gossip had it that Big Dick Lamar had neither been kidnapped nor drowned on a fishing trip, but had left town with a female companion when he disappeared so suddenly that long-ago June night.

  Mary Scarlett relieved him of his dilemma with a dry laugh. “That wasn’t from love. That was pure relief. Big Dick was a big bastard! Everybody knew it. Especially Mama. Enough said!”

  Bolton made no reply. He didn’t want to get Mary Scarlett started on her daddy. That bad blood went way back.

  “How about Allen? Is he still around?”

  “Never left “ Bolton answered.

  Mary Scarlett chuckled. “Who ever does?”

  “You did.”

  “And look where it got me. Right back where I started.” She stared down at her melting ice cubes as if she were contemplating a crystal ball. “I thought for sure Allen would leave.”

  “He’s old Savannah, Oglethorpe Club and all that. Why should he?”

  Mary Scarlett shook her head. “I don’t know. He just never seemed to fit the mold. I thought sure he’d wind up in New York on Wall Street, or maybe in Hong Kong or Paris.” She looked up at Bolt and grinned. “Is he married?”

  “Checking out all possibilities, huh?” he answered grimly. “If that’s the case, you’ll be gratified to learn that Mr. Overman is currently between wives. At least he was as of last week. One never knows with good ole Allen.”

  “How many has he had?”

  Bolt laughed. “Never too many for one more.” He paused and thought for a minute. “I believe four at last count.”

  “Good God! I thought Bluebeard left Savannah ages ago.”

  “Allen’s ex-wives wouldn’t agree with you. He’s still friends with all four and, if gossip can be relied upon, the lover of two. But they’ve all been messy marriages and even messier divorces. It seems Allen can only get along with his wives after they’ve kicked him out.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Let’s see, in order of their wifedom, Cynthia McCloud, Helen Armitage, Luanne Webster, and Aurelia LaMotte.”

  “Aurelia LaMotte? Why, she was Mama’s age! They’re all way older than Allen. Why doesn’t he try someone from our old crowd, like Kathleen, for instance?”

  Bolton bristled, but held a level tone. “Kathleen’s way out of Allen’s league. He came on to her at a party last year. She cut him right down to size, in ladylike fashion, of course. No, Allen would be all wrong for Kathleen. He’s a mover, a shaker, a wheeler-dealer. If she ever marries again, I’m sure she’ll want someone more settled, less flamboyant.”

  “Flamboyant certainly is the right word for Allen. That’s the way I remember him anyhow.” Mary Scarlett’s face took on a sudden glow that twisted some old jealousy deep in Bolton’s heart. “I guess you wouldn’t remember, but Allen was my escort at the Cotillion when I came out. There wasn’t a girl there who wouldn’t have swapped dates with me in a heartbeat. They were just green with envy, the lot of them. I’ll never forget that night.”

  Bolton would never forget that night either. Not well enough born to be approved by the committee as a debutante’s escort, he was hired by the hotel as an extra valet that evening. He had parked Allen’s father’s silver Jaguar. And he’d seen Mary Scarlett—a vision in white lace, her tanned shoulders bare except for a transparent stole. That was the night it really sank in that even though the two of them might live in the same city, they were from totally different worlds. He had wanted to die or kill when Allen had tossed him a quarter tip, then slipped his arm possessively around Mary Scarlett’s slender waist and led her off to the party in the hotel ballroom.

  Unaware that Bolt was lost in his own thoughts or that she was rubbing salt into old wounds, Mary Scarlett rushed on. “Yes, that night was something. Without my knowing it, Allen told all the girls that he planned to ask me to marry him later that night. Of course, he didn’t. And, of course, I wouldn’t have said yes anyway. I meant to break my share of hearts before I settled down.” She paused and giggled. “He spread the word among the guys, also without my knowledge—I would have killed him!—that he and I had already done the dirty deed and that he was taking me to Tybee after the ball to do it again, on the beach, in the moonlight. God, if my mama had ever heard that, she would have died of heart failure right on the spot! She thought he was such a proper, upstanding young gentleman. Would you believe Mama even wanted to go ahead and have an O for Overman engraved on all my silver flatware? I guess she figured I’d have to marry him if she did that. I think Allen put her up to it. He was always teasing about how he and Mama were going to gang up on me and I wouldn’t have any choice but to marry him.”

  “Allen hasn’t changed much. You still have to take everything he says with a grain of salt.”

  “I still say, Kathleen could straighten him out.”

  Bolt didn’t respond. He had gone as far as he could comfortably go at the moment on the subject of Kathleen. Besides, something was still nagging him. What about the bullfighter? Mary Scarlett had talked about everyone else, but she had yet to mention her husband. Had she just up and run away the same way she’d run from Savannah eight years ago?

  “I’m only teasing about Allen and Kathleen. I can sympathize with her,” she said, pouring herself another mimosa from the crystal pitcher. “I’m a widow now, too.”

  Guilt seized Bolton for the thoughts he had been entertaining. He touched her hand. “I’m so sorry, honey. You should have told me. How long?”

  “Raul died eight months ago.”

  “It was sudden?”

  “Very! He went into the ring drunk one afternoon and the bull gored him. I saw the whole thing.”

  Bolton was struck speechless, numb. The thought of anyone meeting such a horrible death—Mary Scarlett’s husband, of all people! And her there to see it. No wonder she was acting erratic.

  “God, Mary Scarlett! It had to be awful for you, honey. I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

  “Let’s don’t talk about it. Okay?”

  “Whatever you say,” he answered gently.

  She turned to him, her smile too wide, her eyes too bright. “What I say, Bolt darlin’, is that I’d really like you to kiss me again. I’m feeling kind of strange and I’m scared to death being back here. I need to know it’s where I belong and that at least one person in all of Savannah is glad to see me.”

  She slid across the tufted leather couch and raised her lips to his, eyes closed, tears seeping from beneath her long lashes.

  “Mary Scarlett, you know I’m glad you’re back,” he whispered.

  Their lips met, and Bolton was forced to admit to himself that it was like time had stopped the minute Mary Scarlett walked out of his life. Now that she was back in his arms again, the clock was running once again.

  Or was that a time bomb ticking?

  Two

  The phone rang before Mary Scarlett was nearly ready for Bolt to stop kissing her. He must have felt the same way, judging from the annoyance in his voice when he answered.<
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  “Yes?” he growled. Then in an only slightly friendlier tone, “Why, Allen, your name came up in conversation not ten minutes ago.”

  Mary Scarlett motioned for Bolton to let her talk.

  He nodded, but held the receiver for long minutes while Allen Overman went on and on about his failure to locate Mary Scarlett.

  Again, she motioned for the phone.

  “Say, Allen, I’ve got someone here who’d like to say hello. That is, if you didn’t get married again since we talked earlier.” Bolt gave a hearty laugh at whatever Allen said in response to that, then he pressed the speaker button.

  “Al-len?” she said huskily. “Do you know who this is?”

  “Mary Scarlett!” he whooped. “Damn, honey! Where you been all my life?”

  “Seeing the world and missing you every minute I was away.”

  Grinning, she met Bolt’s eyes. He gave her a scowl of mock jealousy.

  Allen immediately issued an invitation to Mary Scarlett. “Hey, I’m throwing a little black tie bash at my place Saturday night. Want to come be my date?”

  She arched an eyebrow and glanced at Bolton. “A party?” Bolt nodded his assent. “I’d love to come, Allen, but I’m afraid I’m already spoken for.”

  “Shit, honey!” he responded with a laugh. “Seems like I’m always a day late and a dollar short.”

  “Okay if I bring my feller?”

  “And who might that be?”

  “You know.” She glanced over and fluttered her lashes at Bolt. This was an old game she had played since their school days. Flirting with both “boys,” playing one against the other. She was obviously enjoying herself tremendously. However, this time Allen Overman missed her ploy.

  “Yeah, I know all right. You went and got married. I heard all about it.” Allen paused, then chuckled. “Tell me something, is it true all those matador-guys poke rolled-up socks in their tights to get that bulge and that’s what makes all the bulls see red and all the gals go crazy?”

  Caught off guard, Mary Scarlett gasped and covered her face with her hands.

  Bolton cut Allen off before he could say anything more. “Hey, buddy, I’m her date. I’ll let you know if we can make it.”

  “Did I say something wrong? What’s the matter? Mary Scarlett? You still there?”

  “Gotta go. I’ll call you later, Allen.”

  “Hey, Bolt, I didn’t mean to piss her off.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You should have called me the minute you found her.”

  “I was going to. We just got here.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “I didn’t. She phoned me.” Bolton glanced at Mary Scarlett, still huddled up, her shoulders shaking. “Look, Allen, I really have to go now. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  When Bolt hung up, Mary Scarlett was curled into a ball on the sofa, whimpering softly, tears on her cheeks.

  “Hey, it’s all right,” he said, rubbing her shoulders. “Allen didn’t mean anything. He had no way of knowing about your husband. Nobody here knows you’re a widow, darlin’. If we don’t do something, you’re going to be running into remarks like that all the time.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Hire a sound truck to drive around town and announce it?”

  “Why don’t I put a discreet announcement in the obituary column? If everyone in town reads it in the paper, they won’t ask questions or make dumb comments like Allen’s.”

  She looked at him uncertainly. “No garish details,” she begged with a shudder.

  Bolt shook his head. “No. Only the essentials—the date that it happened and anything else you want to add. There are going to be a lot of questions in people’s minds after that item that ran this morning. The obit will explain things and muzzle the gossips.” He touched her hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Mary Scarlett. Everything’s going to be all right. You’re back home now where you belong.”

  Her eyes were wide and searching. “Do I belong here, Bolt?”

  “Sure you do, honey,” he said gently. “You always did. You always will.”

  He wanted to add, Right here with me, but instead he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  Mary Scarlett murmured her thanks. Her crying stopped. When they parted, she was almost smiling, and her sapphire eyes shone with something like hope for the first time all morning.

  “Give me a pad and a pen, Bolt. I’ll put down what needs to be said.”

  He obliged, then waited as she scratched a brief paragraph on the lined, white paper. She sat back, read over it, then handed it to him. “There!” she said with obvious relief. “That’s done.”

  Bolton got the oddest feeling that she was referring to more than simply the writing of her husband’s obituary. The tone in her voice seemed to indicate that she was closing that chapter of her life. It was done, finished, over for good.

  “Tell you what,” Bolt said, “why don’t I show you to the guest room? You can get unpacked, freshen up, and relax. I’ll run over to the newspaper office, then stop off for some groceries. By the time I get back, you’ll feel like a new woman.”

  Mary Scarlett agreed hesitantly. She really didn’t want to be left alone right now. But Bolt was right. She did need a shower, clean clothes, a nap. Jet lag was dragging her down, making her feel groggy and disoriented.

  “You won’t be gone long, will you?”

  He smiled at her and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll be back before you can whistle the first verse of ‘Dixie.’”

  “It’s so sweet of you to offer me a place to stay, Bolt.”

  He didn’t frown, but he wanted to. He hadn’t meant this as a permanent arrangement, only temporary. Number one, Kathleen would be royally pissed when she found out. Number two, he wasn’t sure it was safe for him to share his place with Mary Scarlett. A kiss between friends now and then was one thing, but he could feel those old flames already rekindling. And Mary Scarlett was vulnerable right now, anxious to have someone take care of her. It could become a habit.

  “Why don’t I stop by the real estate office down the street and pick up their apartment listings—see if there’s anything that might suit you until you decide what to do about the house?”

  Bolton tried to ignore the disappointed look she gave him, but he couldn’t ignore her words. “Honey, I don’t think I’m ready to live alone yet. If it’s no bother, I’d like to stay here with you a while.”

  “Sure, no problem.” His answer sounded casual enough. Deep down, however, he knew they were heading for trouble or at the very least a dangerous entanglement. “Come on now. I’ll put your bags in the bedroom before I leave.”

  As soon as Bolton was gone, Mary Scarlett felt the old panic set in. Her own thoughts were her worst enemies these days, and without someone to talk to they crowded in on her, a pack of snapping, snarling wolves, ready to tear her apart.

  She sat down on the bright peach-and-blue chintz bedspread and put her face in her hands. She felt weak and dizzy. There was no fight left in her. The past months … the past years had left her drained and defenseless.

  Familiar old scenes reeled through her mind like a fast-running video. The face she had seen in her mirror that night eight years ago—a face that held both promise and warning, turning her blood to ice. The face of Jacques St. Julian, a man dead for almost two centuries. It was that vision which had sent her running. Her midnight escape on the train to Atlanta, the clatter and rattle of the rails her only comfort as she fled her past and the history of all her ancestors. Then the long, lonely flight to Rome with no sleep, only troubling, terrifying thoughts to keep her company.

  There were so many memories after that night that they all ran together in her mind. Backpacking through Italy, France, Spain, stealing blood oranges from groves when food money ran low, accepting the hospitality of latter-day hippies in the caves of Ibiza, tramping through sun-baked, dusty streets, high on pot and cheap red wine. She’d
been a mess physically and emotionally by the day she found herself in the plaza de toros in Barcelona, surrounded by a motley group of misfits she’d picked up along the way. She remembered thinking on that brassy-gold afternoon that she was about as far from Savannah, with its cool shaded squares and imposing old mansions, its whispered gossip and secret intrigues, as a body could get. She had felt a moment of pride in that fact. She had finally grown up, left her childhood behind. She could take care of herself and she was doing just that, and, yes, she was proud of herself … until she got a whiff of her own unwashed body, until the bad wine made her stomach turn, until the filthy Gypsy kid named Cosimo tried to grope her breasts right there in front of God and half of Spain. She’d shoved him away and cursed the whole lot of them—her friends—before moving to another seat, farther down, nearer the bullring.

  That’s when she’d seen him for the first time. Raul! Tall, lean, as dark as the pits of hell, as handsome as an archangel, as masculine and sexy as any woman’s most wishful fantasy. Raul, preening for his adoring fans, glowing in his suit of lights, making something deep inside her ache to do his bidding.

  He had made eye contact with her immediately, holding her gaze for long moments, making her tremble to feel his touch. She knew in that instant that he meant to have her. She had been more than willing. Had he invited her down at that moment, she would gladly, blissfully, have stripped naked and thrown herself onto the bloody sand for him to take her in full view of the cheering multitudes.

  There had been no invitation. Simply a single red rose, touched by his lips before he tossed it into her outstretched hands. And that smile—those blinding white teeth in his mahogany-dark face, the black fire in his eyes, the suggestive posture of his firm body that said to her, “You see? It is for you. All my secrets, all my passionate magic, all my love!”

  Looking at him, Mary Scarlett had smiled, thinking there was certainly nothing here of the cool, poised, “gentlemanly” young men who had pursued her back in Savannah, with their flirtatious lies and soft-spoken promises. Raul’s hard, handsome face told her all that would be expected of her, demanded of her. And she was willing. She had brushed the rose with her lips, smiled back, and nodded her assent.