The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  Butt out, Hannah, she told herself. A counselor you’re not. But someone has to try. Hannah laid her hands flat on the table. “I’ll talk to Grace and Bob. Between us, we should be able to get you all together to talk about what’s going on.”

  “Oh, would you, Hannah?” Hope flared for a moment in Emily’s lovely, sad eyes.

  “Sunday,” Hannah said, wondering at her concern for this young woman, and where this impetuous desire to help was coming from. “Sunday, you bring Russell and Tyler for lunch. Grace and Bob will be here.” A pang of guilt stung Hannah for an instant. Grace did not cook on Sundays. On Sundays they all did their own thing, both in and out of the kitchen. Oh, well, there was always tuna salad. Then Hannah, not given to touching, leaned over and brushed a strand of loose hair back from Emily’s forehead. “Up now, my girl, out to the car with you.” Side by side, they walked to the door. Hannah’s heart raced as she watched Emily move slowly down the steps, hesitate a moment, then open the backseat of the car.

  She liked Emily. Why? They had hardly talked until today. Was it because Emily was an attorney, an independent woman? She must love Russell very much to be willing to give up her practice, her life in Florida. Would she, Hannah, have married, had children if she had had a lucrative career? Her record as a wife and mother suggested she would not. Only recently, working with Wayne in the greenhouse, her mind had drifted to Emily, and she found herself comparing her life to Emily’s, envying the younger woman, worrying about her. She had absentmindedly transplanted three anthuriums into one pot!

  Wayne had asked, “What you got your mind on, Miss Hannah?”

  “I’m really out of it today,” she’d replied, and they had laughed.

  Now, from the car came Russell’s voice, hard and loud. “Tyler, get in back.”

  And from the backseat, firmly, Emily said, “No. Tyler, stay where you are. I’m just fine here.”

  Moments later they were gone, leaving Hannah wondering what exactly she’d gotten herself into.

  19

  Doing What Lance Wants

  Everything annoyed Amelia today, most of all the repulsive and ubiquitous ladybugs lying dead on the carpet in the living room. They were, she knew, the last of the season, and their kin would succumb to starvation as they had, and tumble from their hiding places. Long after the cold forced them into hibernation, she would find a ladybug on her bedspread, in her shoes, on the sink in the bathroom. When the phone rang, she heard it dimly and ignored it until Hannah called, “Amelia, it’s Lance.”

  Amelia walked briskly with eager steps to the kitchen and lifted the phone from the wall. “Hello, Lance,” she said, then, “Sunday?” Her brows drew close, and her eyes clouded. “I can’t cancel Sunday brunch with Mike again. Can we do it another day?” She waited, rubbed her fore-head, twisted the cord of the phone. “Their last day?” She scratched her head. “It’s a problem for me. Can I call you back?”

  It was obvious to Hannah, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, that Lance had said no, it was not all right for Amelia to call him back.

  Unaware of being watched, Amelia mouthed, “Damn it,” then paced the length of the cord, frowned, looked worried. Whatever persuasive argument Lance used, it worked. Amelia stopped pacing, stopped twisting the cord. She stood straighter, looked out the window, tossed her head, and laughed lightly. “You make it hard for me to say no.” The husky seductiveness of her voice gave Hannah a clue of what was being said on the other end. The crinkle lines on Amelia’s forehead smoothed. She laughed again. “Eleven, then? See you Sunday. Damn,” she muttered, as she hung up the phone. Then she saw Hannah.

  “Don’t like Lance,” Hannah said bluntly.

  “Well, mon ami, I do,” Amelia replied with another flip of her head. She looked at Hannah, then away, then back at Hannah. “Why don’t you like him?”

  Hannah leaned against the kitchen counter. Amelia stood by the door, one hand on the frame as if poised for flight. “He’s egocentric,” Hannah said. “Selfish. He leads, you follow.” She placed a hand on her forehead and shook her head. “I hate self-centered men who smother women.”

  “No one smothers me.” Amelia’s eyes dilated and blazed.

  “Come on, Amelia. Can’t you see that Lance already has you wrapped around his finger?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “What do you call canceling brunch with Mike?”

  “An exception. Mike will understand.”

  “Like he did when you canceled your theater date, and the opening of Marty Green’s watercolor show? Mike showed up here all upset both times. He’s been a true friend, Amelia.” Hannah tapped her foot. “What’s Lance’s thing this time?”

  “He’s got old friends in; he wants me to meet them.”

  “Monday or Tuesday disappear from the calendar?”

  “Sunday’s their last day.” Amelia looked away. The words sounded hollow, and Hannah made her feel guilty. She hated that.

  “He waits until the last minute, and you’re supposed to cancel your plans and do what he wants.”

  This statement of fact, plain and simple, infuriated Amelia. She struggled not to cry. Her hand on the frame shifted downward slightly. She wanted to yell at Hannah, “Leave me alone.”

  Hannah stepped toward Amelia. “Guilt’s written all over your face. When was the last time you felt guilty, Amelia, tell me, when?”

  Amelia pulled back. Her hand flew to her cheek as if Hannah had slapped her.

  “I’ll tell you when, my friend. When you were having nightmares about Thomas denigrating and destroying your work, remember, before you accepted the fact that you had a right to your own life and success?” Hannah’s voice dropped, as did her shoulders. She walked heavily to a chair and sat. “You stopped feeling guilty when you let Thomas go and started to lead your own life. Are you leading your life now or Lance’s life? Think about it.”

  Amelia’s eyes misted. It was true. She had been a pale, almost invisible gofer for Thomas in his important work with the International Red Cross. Years after his death she had been unable to shake off her dependence on him and make her own life, and she never would have without the encouragement and support of Hannah, and Grace, and Mike.

  “Need I say more?” Hannah asked.

  Amelia rallied. Angry at Hannah, she turned in a huff and swung from the room. She hated it that Hannah was right. Mike would be angry and feel betrayed. He didn’t deserve this. In the early days, when she felt like a dodo unable to grasp the principles of photography, Mike had encouraged her, focused on the positives in her work, and later, when she began to win prizes, urged her to self-publish her work. It was he who had located a printer, accompanied her to Tennessee, negotiated a contract. Other than Grace and Hannah, Mike was the only advocate she had ever had.

  With weighted steps and using her hands one over the other to pull herself along, Amelia mounted the stairs. Once she was in her bedroom, a decidedly feminine room with lacy white curtains and bedspread, the cream-colored walls closed about her.

  Her window offered a splendid view of the mountains with Snowman’s Cap, the pièce de resistance, in the distance. Amelia stood at the window and considered how her life was changing under the constant pressure of Lance’s deadlines. Rushing made her nervous. Nervousness knotted her stomach and sent her trotting to the bathroom. Yet, when he was away she missed Lance’s unconstrained spontaneity. So, why did she feel yoked like an ox, rather than lighthearted and happy?

  Amelia turned from the window, yanked open a dresser drawer, and slammed it shut. She was sixty-nine, and she ached for someone special, someone male to love. Hannah didn’t need a man, and Grace had one. Why shouldn’t she? Mike was good company. They enjoyed theater and much more together, but Mike was gay, and occasionally he disappeared for a day or two, probably on some tryst. Bob and Grace. She envied the way Bob wrapped his arm about Grace’s shoulder, their kiss good night at the door, envied the loving tone in Bob’s voice when he spoke to Grace. She loved Grac
e, and was happy for them. It was confusing.

  Plopping on the side of her bed, Amelia kicked off first one shoe and then the other. Was Hannah right about Lance? Meeting his oldest friends was like being taken home to meet his parents, who were probably dead. Lance never said. You’d think he could say if his parents were deceased. Amelia’s hand shook as she pulled her scarf off. It hit the floor and formed a tent over the shoe closest to her bed. She would put it right with Mike. She would meet Lance’s friends at noon and then join Mike at the Purple Plum Gallery by three on Sunday afternoon where they would hang her photographs for a show that would open next Wednesday. She’d have dinner with Mike and explain, and he would understand. He had to.

  On Sunday, Amelia’s hair was still wet from her shower when Hannah called up the stairs, “Amelia, Lance is here.”

  Her bedside clock said ten-forty-five in the morning. Forty-five minutes to get to Asheville. Brunch was at twelve. He was early, again, and hated being kept waiting. Amelia raked a comb through damp hair, pulled on stockings and soft gray wool slacks. The zipper caught. It took moments to work loose. She tucked her mauve silk blouse into her slacks. Over it she buttoned a snug-fitting, handmade vest in shades of violet, and around her neck she wore an amber necklace: both were presents from Lance after his trip.

  One side of the vest hung lower than the other. Unbutton. Hurry. Her fingers shook. Button correctly. Hurry. She must go to the bathroom once more. Amelia took several slow, deep breaths, dabbed on lipstick, and grabbed her daytime purse. Sitting on the edge of her bed she dumped the contents on the bedspread, singled out a few items: compact, lipstick, comb, keys, and flung them into a small tan satin clutch. She lost several moments carefully placing her scarf about her neck, covering the burn scars. “I’m coming,” she called, and started down the stairs. She tripped on the second step and almost fell. Amelia leaned against the railing, her heart pattering. A fine way to start this date.

  Lance paced the foyer. The padded shoulders of his overcoat added to his substantial Nordic frame. His big, brown-gloved hands twisted his hat. Amelia noted the shift in his eyes from annoyance to appreciation as he looked her over, top to bottom. “You look lovely,” he said, extending his hand. Then with urgency in his voice, “Come on. We’re late. Let’s get a move on.”

  Lance towered over Amelia. Debonair in Armani slacks and sport jacket, a silk ascot hung deliberately about his neck, Lance wore an air of arrogance, as if he were shouting to all the men and women in the room, “Hey, you lesser creatures, look at me, and weep.” While they waited for the maitre d’ to seat them, Lance positioned them conspicuously in the center of the raised foyer, from where they looked down on the closest diners.

  Amelia’s heart scampered wildly in her chest. I’m Amelia Declose, she reminded herself. I’ve traveled extensively worldwide, dined with princes, ministers of foreign countries, ambassadors. So, why then did she feel Lilliputian and diminished? The next moment, she was being propelled forward, down several carpeted steps, across a Mexican tile floor through a dimly lit room with the feel of evening, not midday, and she realized that there were no windows. A penguin of a man, seeming out of place in a black tuxedo, led them to a table in a far alcove. Heavy drapes, tied back with thick cords and knotted tassels, isolated the alcove from the rest of the room. A chair at a round, dark table was pulled back, and moments later Amelia was sitting watching Lance shake hands with the men and kiss the women on their upturned cheeks or lips. Two couples. She had expected only one couple, old friends, a warm get-to-know-you chat during which she anticipated learning more about Lance.

  She studied the room, noted its high, wood-beamed ceiling, saw that most of the booths were full, the voices subdued, the music low, but the drumbeat distinct. In the corner of a booth, huddled close to a casually dressed woman with gray hair pulled back in a chignon, snuggled a tiny papillon dog with long, silky white hair and large, erect ears that resembled butterfly wings. A dog in a restaurant? Why had she never been to this restaurant before, never heard anyone speak of it? Mike kept abreast of new clubs and restaurants.

  Now, everyone at their table was greeting her, reaching out to shake her hand. The women were smartly dressed in bright-colored Adolfo suits reminiscent of Nancy Reagan, or were those button-down jackets Bill Blass? They seemed younger than Amelia, until she noticed the topography of their hands. Thickened blue veins traversed raised swirls of wrinkles. They had had facelifts, and good ones, but hands do not lie.

  “Amelia is widely traveled,” Lance boasted.

  “Oh, where have you been to?” Lucille asked.

  “Where haven’t I been?” Amelia replied. These effusive well-dressed men and women reminded her of the people Thomas had cultivated: newly rich and philanthropic. Amelia chatted amicably, superficially, knowing she would never see any of them again. “My husband was an executive with the International Red Cross. We lived abroad more years than we lived in America.”

  The slighter woman, Sonya, had spent a summer after college vacationing, and sailing the Mediterranean coast off the small Italian town of Spezia. Amazingly, Amelia and Thomas had honeymooned there. The women agreed that revisiting Spezia today would only destroy their memories of the quaint seaside village.

  Later, over lunch, the men exchanged golf stories and talked of football, the women waxed ebullient about travel and clothes. Amelia wondered which of these couples were Lance’s oldest friends. She could distinguish no difference in his interactions with any one of them, in fact she noted no particular camaraderie or familiarity, no inside jokes, none of the quick understanding nods or winks one would expect between old friends. Amelia looked at her watch. “Lance,” she said, when she was able to get his attention. “This has been lovely, but I have to get to the Purple Plum Gallery within fifteen minutes. Can we leave?”

  “Sure,” he said. He shoved back his chair as if to rise and went right on chatting with Henry, to his left.

  Amelia stood. She would take a cab. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you all. I hope to see you again, but I must go now.”

  “Must you?” Sonya’s hand clung to hers. “We’re going to tour your most famous tourist attraction, the Biltmore House. From the pictures it looks like a castle right out of Europe.”

  “It’s a lovely place, the gardens too, but I am sorry.” Amelia tugged a bit to get her hand back. “Didn’t Lance tell you? We’re hanging my photographs at a gallery this afternoon. My show opens Wednesday.” She held her purse tight to her waist, and realized that in her haste she had not brought her wallet, not even a quarter to phone Mike. Her mouth went dry. Butterflies beat their wings on the walls of her stomach. Amelia tightened her jaw to keep it from trembling.

  “You have a show? What kind of show?” Lucille asked.

  “I’m a photographer.”

  “Big-deal photographer around here. She’s even got a book out,” Lance said.

  He had never told them. What had he said about her?

  “Quite nice pictures.” Lance stood and swung his arm, possessively, around Amelia’s shoulders.

  “Lance, you bad boy,” Lucille said. “Why didn’t you tell us? We could have all gone along and seen Amelia’s work.”

  “But we bought tickets to the Biltmore House,” Sonya said.

  Lance started to lead Amelia away. “Well, it’s been a blast seeing you guys. I’ll take a rain check on the Biltmore House. Call when you’re in the area again.” He stopped for a moment to slip one of the men several folded bills. “Take care of the tab for me, will you?”

  They stepped out into cold sunshine. The glare stung her eyes, more so, even, than when coming out of the movies. “They loved you,” he whispered to Amelia. “I knew they would.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “I know them all so well.”

  “Which of the couples are the old, dear friends you wanted me to meet? I couldn’t tell.” She struggled to keep the edge from her voice.

  “Couldn’t you? Wel
l, perhaps not. I’ve known both couples, on and off, for years.” He held open the door of his car for her.

  Amelia felt tricked. She had hurt Mike and for what? Who was Lance anyway? And who were those people? All she knew was that Lance had been an architect, lived in Denver, and retired to Loring Valley. And he still, at his age—how old was he anyway?—caught every woman’s eye, like Ginger Hammer’s, at the party at the tearoom. Unwittingly, a wave of pride swept over Amelia, and an almost palpable aura of superiority that Ginger might want him, but she, Amelia, had him. She cast a sideways glance at Lance. Yes, he was egocentric, and he was also gorgeous with his Nordic fair skin, and sexy, and an exquisite dancer. She adored dancing. How young, how bold, how free she felt when they danced.

  The sign extended over the sidewalk. Bright purple plums on leafy green vines surrounded the name PURPLE PLUM GALLERY. Lance slowed the car. “Damn it,” he muttered. “On a Sunday, you’d think parking would be easy.”

  “It’s never easy parking in downtown Asheville anymore.” But Amelia’s mind was light-years away, thinking how when Lance had left town the last time she had felt betrayed and bereft.

  “I’m not tolerating this kind of treatment,” she’d told Grace. “I’m going to end it with him.”

  But just hearing his voice on the phone when he returned left her weak-kneed. She found him utterly desirable, and that, and the dancing, was his power over her. She was ashamed to admit this to Grace.

  The dance club they frequented boasted velvet draperies, raised parquets dotted with small round tables, a highly polished maple dance floor, and crystal chandeliers. A four-piece ensemble of versatile musicians played forties and fifties music: jazz, waltzes, polkas, tangos.