Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Allen chuckled and reached over to fondle the sparkling gems at Kathleen’s throat. “You were off, God knows where, haggling over trinkets when she made up her mind. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.” He turned and winked at Mary Scarlett. “Then, of course, there’s the matter of my unequaled charm and charisma, Talli old chap. That goes a long way in convincing ladies that I’m the right man … for almost anything.”

  “But you don’t have the connections to dispose of a piece like that, Overman. It should sell in New York at auction. Sotheby’s or Christie’s.”

  “Exactly my plan, Fitzhugh. The Josephine will be the centerpiece of Sotheby’s next sale.” He leaned toward Kathleen and reached for the clasp. “Do you mind, Katie dear?”

  He gave her no time to answer before he removed the necklace, then turned to Mary Scarlett. “May I?” he asked, holding up the waterfall of diamonds. “I’d like to see how it looks against black.”

  Murmurs of admiration were heard around the table when the others saw the dramatic effect. Mary Scarlett fingered the cold stones nervously.

  “There!” Allen breathed. “Have you ever seen anything more magnificent?”

  All eyes turned to Mary Scarlett. Their stares set her nerves on edge. She reached back to undo the clasp. “I’ve always thought it indecent for a woman under forty to wear diamonds,” she said with a forced laugh.

  “No, please!” Fitzhugh objected from across the table. “Don’t take it off. Allow me the pleasure of gazing at it a bit longer. What a fantastic sight! The beauty of the necklace is outshone only by your own, my dear.”

  “Watch it there, buddy!” Allen said with a leer. “That’s my girl you’re flirting with.”

  No one but Kathleen noticed when Bolt stiffened at Allen’s words.

  The main course arrived—a fragrant, spicy lava flow of shrimp creole atop a mountain of fluffy white rice. Silence reigned as ’Gator and ’Tator served the piece de resistance.

  “I want you all to know that these shrimp slept in the Atlantic last night. Old Sam brought his boat in early this morning and I met him at the dock at dawn,” Allen said. “And the peppers and tomatoes slept—if veggies can be said to sleep—in my garden until only hours ago.”

  Mary Scarlett looked at him askance. She couldn’t imagine Allen up at dawn to buy shrimp or up at any time to work in a vegetable garden. The others laughed and exchanged knowing glances. They didn’t believe a word of it either.

  Not until demitasse and dessert—a magnificent trifle, oozing rich cream, nutmeats, raisins, and blackberry brandy—did the conversation return to Mary Scarlett and her secret life of the past eight years.

  “Well, I just think Spain must have been glorious,” Missy remarked. “I don’t understand how you could bear to come back to little ole Savannah, honey.”

  “How did your husband die?” Annabelle asked bluntly. “The item in the paper wasn’t real clear on that point.”

  Bolt shot the woman a quick, angry look.

  Mary Scarlett set down her spoon and stared at it. “In the bull ring,” she whispered.

  “Oh, God!” Annabelle and several others gasped. “How terrible!”

  “An honorable death for a brave torero,” Mary Scarlett said softly. “He will remain forever a hero in the eyes of his countrymen.”

  “Why don’t we have our brandy in the front parlor?” Allen suggested, attuned to Mary Scarlett’s need for a change of venue, even if she wouldn’t get a new jury.

  He stood and eased her chair back. “Need some air?” he whispered.

  She pled her case with her eyes, unable to trust her voice.

  “Come on. I’ll get the others settled with their afterdinner drinks, then I’ll show you my vegetable garden.”

  That brought a smile from her as he knew it would. She had always known when he was lying—“yanking her chain,” as she used to say. Still, she looked like she could use a breath of air and he desperately wanted to get her alone.

  “The powder room?” she asked.

  He motioned down the hallway. “Third door on the left.”

  Allen had the very ticket to keep the others occupied while he slipped outside with Mary Scarlett. He saw that everyone had a drink, then pulled out his collection of high school and college yearbooks and old photograph albums.

  “Oh, my word!” Missy shrieked. “Here’s a picture of Roach in the third grade! And our kids wonder how their daddy got his nickname.” She turned and called, “Roach honey, come look at this.”

  But Roach Carlisle had found a comfortable chair and was enjoying his brandy and cigar.

  “Here we are, the belles of the prom,” Annabelle cried excitedly. “Look! Mary Scarlett’s the only one not wearing falsies with her strapless gown. I was so jealous! I craved boobs in the worst way.”

  “And now we both do, darling,” Lawton Winthrop said, smiling coolly at his wife.

  “I wasn’t wearing falsies,” Cecelia sniffed, then glanced nervously over at Lawton Winthrop, remembering suddenly that he had been her date that night.

  He only chuckled and raised his snifter to her in salute. Her secret was safe with him. He had found out that there was nothing false about plump Cecelia when they had parked by the river after the dance. As his wife had just put it so aptly, he, too, had craved boobs ever since.

  Even Kathleen got in on the action. “Bolt, come look at this. It’s you on your bike, delivering papers. That goes way back.”

  He sauntered over and draped his arm casually across her shoulders. “Damn, I was an ugly kid! Let’s see what you looked like, princess.”

  Flipping through one of the yearbooks, he found Kathleen’s freshman picture and stabbed at it with one finger. “There! Take that, my pretty!”

  “Oh, no,” Kathleen moaned, covering her eyes. “How could you, Bolt? Look at that hair! Those braces!”

  “Those falsies!” Cecelia said with a broad grin.

  Seeing that his guests were up to their eyeballs in nostalgia, Allen slipped out of the room and down the long hallway. He met Mary Scarlett as she came out of the downstairs powder room.

  “How ‘bout that stroll in the moonlight, darlin’?”

  “You’re on, Mr. Overman.”

  The night air in the parterre garden between the mansion and the carriage house was cool, scented with green perfumes and exotic Confederate jasmine. After the day’s storm, the sky was perfectly clear, the stars a mirror of Josephine’s diamonds against Mary Scarlett’s black silk. The quarter moon cast just enough silver to enchant the garden and bring memories flooding back of other soft Savannah nights.

  Mary Scarlett took a deep breath. “Ah, it smells like home.”

  Allen slipped his arm around her waist. “It is home, honey. It’s where you belong. You should never have gone away.”

  “I had to,” she answered absently.

  “Why? I still don’t know.”

  “I’m not sure I do either. I was confused, unhappy.”

  “But you were fixing to get married. I thought you and Bolt were all set. I was jealous as hell, of course.”

  “I don’t know why everyone assumed that. There’d been no engagement notice in the paper, no invitations mailed out. I wasn’t wearing a ring.”

  “But you would have been if you’d stayed. My God, Mary Scarlett, he was building a house for the two of you!”

  “Bolt’s idea,” she said, and the picket fence flashed through her mind.

  “Come on now. This is ole Allen you’re talking to. And I know Bolt. He’d never have started such a project if you hadn’t said you’d marry him. We were both in love with you. But of course you know that.”

  She reached up and touched his face, a mask of light and shadow in the pale moonlight. “You’re sweet, Allen. You always have been.”

  “Shoot, there’s nothing sweet about the way I felt when I found out you meant to marry Bolt. I wanted to kill the bastard
with my bare hands.”

  “But Bolt was your best friend.”

  “And a lot bigger than I was. That’s why I didn’t kill him. A second-best friend with a little less muscle would have been in his grave long since.”

  “You’re joking.” She chuckled.

  He sighed. “Yeah, that’s me—ole Allen-the-joker. Good for a few laughs, a few steamy dates, but not good enough to marry Mary Scarlett Lamar.”

  “Allen, you know better than that. All through school I thought we’d be married someday. Why, we’d be man and wife now if I’d listened to my mama.”

  “Ah, Miss Lucy! How I adored that woman! I think I wanted to be her son-in-law almost as much as I wanted to be your husband.”

  “I know that,” she said quietly. “Maybe that was part of the problem. I was a little bit jealous of the relationship you two had. I wanted a man all my own. I didn’t want to share my husband with my mother. And when I imagined us married, I also imagined Wednesday night suppers and Sunday dinners, command performances at Mama’s house, with her making over you and Big Dick drunk out of his skull and picking fights with all of us. It just made me sick, Allen. I didn’t want to live like that or raise kids like that.”

  “That’s a weird reason to turn a guy down. A guy who was—is—crazy in love with you.”

  That stopped Mary Scarlett short for a minute. She stared at him. “You don’t really mean that. Maybe one time, long ago. But not still.”

  “Oh, no?”

  Before Mary Scarlett knew what was happening, Allen drew her into his arms and kissed her deeply. This wasn’t one of his frantic, hot-to-trot high school kisses, but a sweet caressing of flesh, a pleading for love and trust. She came away as shocked as she was breathless.

  “Give me another chance, Mary Scarlett,” he said earnestly. “That’s all I ask. I know I botched things last time. But we’re older now, more settled. We’ve both been married and we know the pitfalls. We could make it work.”

  “Allen, please…”

  Before she had a chance to turn him down, he kissed her again. This time he moved his hand from her waist to her hip, then lower until he found the slit at the side of her skirt. He shoved the slithery fabric aside to caress her bare thigh. His other hand worked its way up to the diamonds, stroking them with his fingertips while his palm rubbed her breast.

  When she was breathing hard and returning tongue thrust for tongue thrust, Allen released her so suddenly that her weak knees nearly caved in under her.

  “If you’re finished with my date, I think it’s time I took her home.” Bolt’s gruff voice cut through the silence in the garden like a knife blade, startling them both.

  “Bolt!” Mary Scarlett said. “We just came out for a breath of air.”

  “So I saw,” he answered sarcastically.

  Allen shrugged. “You can’t begrudge a guy a kiss for old time’s sake.”

  “If you wanted something for old time’s sake, you could have stayed inside and looked at the pictures of you groping Mary Scarlett at the prom. You didn’t have to come out here and recreate the scene.”

  “Bolt, that’s unkind,” Mary Scarlett snapped.

  “It’s been a long day, Mary Scarlett. I’m ready to go home. Do you want to go with me or stay here? I’m sure Allen wouldn’t mind bringing you home later.”

  “Hey, she’s welcome to stay all night.”

  Mary Scarlett was just about to say that she was tired and ready to go, too, but Bolt never gave her a chance.

  He turned to go back to the house. “Fine! Stay, then. I’ll see Kathleen home.”

  When Mary Scarlett made a motion that told Allen she was about to call out to Bolt, he quickly took her into his arms again and silenced her with another kiss. Furious with Bolt and unable to escape Allen’s embrace, Mary Scarlett let herself relax in his arms.

  But the spell was broken. This was like her school days all over again. Allen and Bolt. Bolt and Allen. Each of them tugging her this way and that. Never letting her make up her own mind about either of them.

  She pushed out of Allen’s arms and headed back to the house. But by the time she reached the parlor, Bolt was gone. So was Kathleen.

  Nine

  Bolt peeled rubber, anxious to be away from the party. Away from Allen Overman and Mary Scarlett.

  “Do you mind explaining to me what’s going on?” Kathleen asked, staring at Bolt’s grim profile lit by the greenish dashboard lights. “What is this? Musical dates?”

  “You didn’t have to come,” he snapped.

  For a time they were silent, Bolt intent on breaking the speed limit and Kathleen nursing the hurt from his angry reply.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, Katie. I’m not mad at you.”

  “I know that,” she answered, tears threatening. She wished he cared enough to get this mad at her. “What happened, Bolt? Can’t you tell me?”

  Instead of answering her question, he said, “Feel like a nightcap?”

  “Sure.” She smiled in the darkness. This would be her first visit to Bolt’s place since Mary Scarlett’s return. A week ago, she’d thought of his apartment as her second home.

  But instead of parking on Bay Street, Bolt drove down the steep incline to River Street. The CRX bounced and bumped over the rough cobbles—ballast from century-old ships—as it inched its way toward the waterfront with its strip of shops, restaurants, and bars. The smells of fried shrimp, pralines, beer, and river mud permeated the damp night air.

  The popular tourist area was packed, the cars jammed tight. Bolt parked at a precarious angle, then came around to open the passenger door and help Kathleen out.

  “Watch your step now,” he warned. “It’s rough out here.”

  Kathleen thought to herself that he didn’t know how rough.

  He took her arm to help her negotiate the cobbles in her high heels, not an easy task, especially in the dim light from the street lamps. At this hour most of the restaurants and bars on River Street were ablaze with hot music and awrithe with sweaty bodies. Bolt guided her down the street toward a small, rustic lounge called Harbor Lights. With no live band to draw a crowd, the place was practically deserted, except for one quietly romantic couple and a few solitary drinkers at the bar.

  “Let’s take that table by the window, in the corner,” Bolt suggested.

  As they crossed the threshold into the murky den of candlelight and cigarette smoke, a tired-looking blond waitress came from the shadows to show them to their seats.

  “What’ll you have?” she asked in a bored tone.

  “A draft for me,” Bolt ordered, then nodded toward Kathleen.

  “Vodka tonic,” she said.

  They waited in silence until their drinks were set before them. Then Bolt got right to the point. “So tell me, Kathleen, did you and Overman cook this up together?”

  She blushed. It was on the tip of her tongue to deny any knowledge of what he was talking about. But she knew. And he knew she knew. She nodded.

  “Allen called me at the last minute and asked if I’d be his hostess this evening. I agreed.”

  “That was it? No motive behind his madness?”

  “Oh, he had motive all right. Mary Scarlett. He wanted to make her jealous. He thought having me there would do the trick.”

  “What does he think this is, high school?” Bolt puffed out his cheeks, then blew a long blast of breath.

  Unable to look Bolt in the eye, Kathleen stared out the window at the reflected lights on the river. “It’s my fault as much as Allen’s. I went along with his scheme.” Then she shrugged. “I guess I should be happy. I got what I wanted. I’m with you.”

  “But you aren’t happy.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No, because you aren’t. When I’m out with a man, I like to think that I’m the only woman he has on his mind. What happened, Bolt? Did you go out and catch them in the garden star-gazing?”

  “Yep!”

&n
bsp; “And?”

  “They looked like they were trying to eat each other alive.” He shredded his cocktail napkin. “I shouldn’t have gone out there.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. You need to give her some space. Mary Scarlett’s not herself, Bolt. She needs time to fit back into the picture. Here in Savannah, she’s lost her place in the scheme of things. With you and Allen both giving her the big rush, she doesn’t know which way to turn.”

  When Bolt made no reply, Kathleen shook her head and said, “God! Will you listen to me, of all people, making excuses for her. What am I doing? Forget what I just said, Bolt. You should be mad as hell at her.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  “Hey, I don’t see anything funny.”

  Bolt stopped laughing and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I don’t either, Katie. I just can’t believe any of this is happening. Life was so calm and pleasant a week ago. It seemed like I was on the verge of forgetting that Mary Scarlett Lamar ever existed.” He reached over and touched Kathleen’s hand. “I really thought we had something good going, you and I.”

  “Isn’t it still good?” she asked, holding her breath.

  He waited a long time to answer. “I have to explain something, Kathleen. Then you tell me if it’s still good. Something’s happened to Mary Scarlett. Or, I should say, something’s happening to her. I still haven’t gotten her to tell me why she ran away from Savannah. I think I’m at least partly responsible and that makes me feel guilty as hell. From what she has told me, her time in Europe wasn’t the lark she described tonight at dinner. Her bullfighter husband was a sadistic bastard. He refused even to allow her to come home for her own mother’s funeral.”

  “But that’s all behind her. He’s dead now.”

  “He’s dead. Yes. And Mary Scarlett was there to see it all when the bull tore into him, then trampled his body into the dust.”

  Kathleen covered her face with her hands. Even imagining such a thing was more than she could bear.

  “It had to be awful for her,” Bolt continued. “I can’t think of anything worse. Unless she’d been wishing he were dead, which is very possible, and believes now that she brought about his death.”