The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  And then, as January rolled into February, and there was still no word from the investigator, Amelia set aside her doubts about Lance, and fell back into the old pattern of acquiescing to him. More and more, as she acceded to Lance’s wishes, she made excuses to Mike, and quite often left her camera at home. Ashamed that she had confessed her passion for Lance, Amelia avoided Grace’s eyes when they were together.

  And then one evening after a fine dinner followed by hours of glorious dancing, she and Lance returned to his apartment, which miraculously, was one of two apartments that had been relatively unaffected by water or mud from the storm.

  The lights were turned low. Soft music, Benny Goodman perhaps, floated from every corner of the room, yet she saw no speakers. “Where’s the music coming from?”

  “They’re behind the pictures.” He lifted one of the two new, stark black-and-white line drawings from the wall. Behind the drawing was a long, flat speaker.

  “Clever,” Amelia said, thinking how like him to hide the speakers, as he hid his own life.

  All else about Lance’s apartment screamed temporary and eluded warmth: bare white walls, uncarpeted wood floors, minimal leather furniture, and not a vase of flowers, a book, a photograph, or even a magazine. Amelia never felt comfortable here.

  Lance slipped his arm about her waist, drew her down onto the couch, and kissed her repeatedly, first softly, then more urgently. “Amelia.”

  “Yes?” It was more a groan than a word.

  “We’re good together, don’t you think?”

  She nodded.

  “So what’s the problem? Why can’t you just let yourself go, enjoy yourself, enjoy us?”

  “I do enjoy us.”

  “Let’s go to bed, darling.” He was up off the couch then and reaching for her hands. Against the stark white wall, he loomed dark and somewhat sinister.

  Heart racing, quivering, Amelia lay there. She did not raise her hands to meet his. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Do you love me, Lance?” She held her breath.

  “Do you love me, Amelia?” His lips curled in a wry smile.

  She pulled the edges of her blouse together, and rebuttoned the tiny pearl buttons he had undone. God, his hand had felt good on her breast. Keep a clear head, she urged the part of herself that longed to give in to him. Wait for the report from Detective Lambert. It would probably be fine, but still something urged she ought to wait.

  “I asked you first, Lance, do you love me?”

  He remained silent, turned, and strode to the window. “It’s starting to snow.”

  Slipping from the couch, Amelia was on her feet in a moment “Take me home, Lance, before I get stuck up here.”

  He whirled, his eyes gray and stormy. “Stuck? With me?” His eyes frightened her. Why had she come here tonight? Stupid!

  It happened so fast. Lance grabbed her, and in a flash she found herself on the couch again with his weight bearing her deep into the cushions. “I’m crazy for you. You tease me and leave me,” he murmured. His hands worked at the scarf, to undo it. “What do I care about a few scars? You’re a lovely woman.” He kissed her neck above the scarf.

  Afraid as she was, he stirred passion in her. It muddled her thinking. Why was she making all this fuss? What would be so terrible if she went to bed with him? It’s not the scars, she reminded herself. You don’t trust him. She grasped this thought and held on to it, determined not to go to bed with a man possessed of so many secrets.

  Her hands pushed at his chest, and he raised his head and peered at her with lust-filled eyes. “It’s not about scars, Lance. It’s about trust. Where do you go each month? I know nothing about you, Lance. Tell me, please.”

  He eased his weight a bit. “What you see is what you get, Amelia. I thought you understood that.”

  “I try to understand, but I don’t.” Her voice cracked. Suddenly she knew she had to get out of here, get away from him. But how? Bob’s condo wasn’t far, just up around the curve. Grace was there, she knew that. She could walk. No, she couldn’t, not on snowy, slippery roads, not in confounded high heels, and certainly not barefoot.

  A crooked smile settled on Lance’s face. “You know how much I want you, Amelia.” His powerful arms crushed her beneath him. Against her thigh, his erection pressed for satisfaction. His mouth clamped over hers, and his lips, which she had enjoyed kissing and being kissed by, were now hard and insistent. He breathed scotch. Suddenly, his kiss repulsed her. Twisting her head away, she gasped for breath. Wiggling one hand free, Amelia pushed against his chest, but it was like pushing granite.

  Oh, God, Amelia prayed silently, help me. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, beyond the shock, and confusion, and deep regret, she determined to fight him, or try to. Could she bring her knee to his crotch as she’d seen done in movies? But it was impossible to move. His tugging at her clothes grew more urgent. Lance grunted something she did not understand, and pinioned both her arms. Under the steamy heat of his passion, Amelia whimpered and lay there helplessly compressed by the weight and strength of him. Amelia closed tear-filled eyes. This was not what she had dreamed. This was horrible.

  And then she bit him. Her teeth clamped down like a vise on his tongue, and he screamed. The way he rolled off of her told her she had a chance. In a second she was up and heading for the door. Amelia yanked it open. Barefoot and without a coat, Amelia darted out into the cold night, into the road, and almost into the path of an oncoming car.

  The driver slammed on his brakes. The car skidded sideways and stopped. By some miracle Bob and Grace were in the car. “My God, Amelia,” Grace shouted, and tearing open the door ran to Amelia, who, having used every ounce of energy, simply stood there weeping. By the time Lance appeared in his doorway screaming, “Amelia, get back here,” she was safe in Bob’s car, and as they rounded the hairpin curve, they could still hear Lance cursing her. Covering her ears Amelia curled up in the backseat and cried.

  At the farmhouse, Bob carried Amelia upstairs to her bedroom and laid her gently on her bed. Grace and Hannah undressed her.

  “He would have hurt me,” Amelia sobbed. “Oh, Grace, if you and Bob hadn’t come . . .”

  “Thank God, Bob was just taking me home.”

  Hannah put cold compresses on Amelia’s bruised arms, and Grace stayed with her all night and most of the next day. Twice before, she and Hannah had tended Amelia and nursed her physically and emotionally back to health: after she had been lost in Pisgah Forest and rescued, and again when Amelia, out shooting pictures, was caught in a renegade snowstorm and her car slid into a ditch. She had been rescued by the highway patrol moments prior to collapsing into a snowbank. As Amelia herself had said recently, major stress upon major stress left a person more vulnerable and less resilient.

  “Lights. Please turn on more lights,” Amelia requested. She curled into a ball and stared at nothing. She would not look at Grace or Hannah, and absolutely refused to see Mike. It was odd, wanting to hide from them all, yet needing so much light.

  Amelia stayed in her room most of the time for almost a week. It was only when Hannah informed her that Detective Lambert had completed his investigation of Lance and was waiting in the living room that Amelia made it downstairs and collapsed onto the sofa. If she had had major surgery, she could not have seemed more exhausted.

  The detective, a straight shooter as Harold had said he was, was of medium height, with sandy hair peeping from his Sherlock Holmes cap, and rumpled clothing. He stood stiffly throughout his report, and though he averted his eyes from Amelia, he spared them nothing. “Lance Lundquist’s a scam artist,” he declared flatly. “He preys on women, older widows, for their money.”

  “Why Amelia? She’s not rich,” Grace asked.

  “He also preys on attractive ladies. They’re his dessert, a reward you might say for being with women he doesn’t like except for their money.” He flipped a page of his report. “He’s got a wife in Texas.” />
  Amelia gasped.

  “That’s where he goes every month. They’re in this scam together. Everything’s in her name. Probably got a stash of cash and jewelry in the Bahamas. He’s got two ex-wives who have lawsuits against him for back alimony, to which he pleads poverty. He’s got one son who’s in jail in Nevada for grand larceny. Gambling casino had him locked up.”

  His words jumbled in Amelia’s brain as she struggled to control her trembling and hold back the tears that pressed behind her eyes. Standing behind Amelia’s chair, Grace rested firm hands on her friend’s shoulders. “It’s going to be all right, Amelia. It’s going to be all right.”

  Amelia shook her head. It would never ever be all right.

  Hannah paced. “The bastard. How can we get him?”

  “I doubt he’s still around,” Grace said.

  “Right. But you could file charges with the sheriff’s office,” Lambert said.

  “What will I do?” Amelia whispered. It was all she could do just to sit in the room and listen to the report. She didn’t want to, or to otherwise embarrass or further humiliate herself in front of Lambert.

  “Chalk it up to experience, ma’am, and get on with your life,” Lambert said bluntly. “The longer you agonize over him, the more he’s won.”

  “The bastard attacked Amelia,” Hannah said.

  “Visible injuries?” the detective asked.

  “A few bruises on her arms, a sprained wrist.”

  “These guys are slick. They don’t leave marks that can’t be attributed to a fall or hitting an arm against some piece of furniture. It’s his word against hers.” He nodded toward Amelia, then shifted his eyes quickly away.

  “Damn it, I hate the bastard.” Hannah quivered with rage.

  “I bet,” Grace said, “if we went to his apartment right now, it’d be empty. We drove off, and, I’m sure he wasn’t far behind us making his getaway.”

  Please God Grace is right, Amelia prayed silently, and he’s gone, that I’ll never have to see him again.

  The detective looked contrite, sorry to have been the bearer of such news. “I’m sorry,” he said, extending his hand to give Amelia the full written report.

  “I’ll take it,” Hannah said.

  Lambert slung on his coat, tipped his Sherlock Holmes cap, and moments later was gone.

  With vacant eyes Amelia looked from Hannah to Grace. “Fool. I’m such a fool. How could I have trusted him? The signs were all there.” Her eyes found Hannah’s. “You warned me.”

  “It’s over. Come. You need to rest.” They led her upstairs to her room and Amelia collapsed onto her bed, where she slept for the next fifteen hours. It would be the deepest sleep she would have in many months.

  37

  The Wedding Dress

  “It’s for an older lady,” Grace explained.

  “How old?” the miniskirted salesgirl asked.

  “Does it matter how old?” Grace was becoming irritated.

  “It would help me find the right dress,” the girl said. Grace noted the swelling in the pocket of her jaw. It couldn’t be chewing tobacco; it must be gum.

  “The bride-to-be is eighty-one years old.”

  The girl began to laugh. She cackled, and leaned against the wall clutching her stomach. Grace walked briskly from the store. The booth she found had a phone book hanging from a chain and stank of cheap perfume and cigarettes. Grace left the door open as she braced the heavy book on her hip. Two other wedding shops were listed; neither was far away.

  Her walk took her past the civic center. For a moment Grace stopped to admire the charming, cast-bronze figures on the sidewalk—a tribute to Asheville’s long tradition of folk music, and part of its urban trail—two adults dancing, a young girl clapping to a fiddler, and a banjo player. Overhead, the marquee advertised an upcoming Asheville Symphony concert, a gun and rifle show, an ice hockey match, and a country music program.

  Grace scanned Ellie’s Bridal Shop for an older saleswoman and saw a middle-aged woman, tall, with dark curly hair.

  “My friend is an older lady being married for the first time. I’m shopping for a wedding gown for her. I have her measurements.”

  “How sweet,” the saleswoman said. “I’m always pleased when someone older marries. I’m fifty-four. Gives me hope.”

  “She may be a size six. She’d like a dress that’s high at the neck with long sleeves.”

  “We can handle that. We may have to order the size. Do you wish to try on the gowns yourself?”

  “Oh, heavens, no. We’re quite a different size and shape. May I see what you have with a high neck and long sleeves?”

  “Step back here with me, please.” Silently, over thick mauve carpeting, the saleswoman led Grace across one room, and through another, and offered her a seat on a tufted circular couch in the center of a salon lined with mirrors.

  Soft elevator music drifted from hidden speakers, and Grace relaxed. From the bowels of the shop the saleswoman wheeled a rack of wedding gowns and began to rifle through the dresses.

  Uncertain of wedding shop etiquette, Grace fought the urge to get up and look for herself. Sitting quietly, she fingered the clasp on her purse and worried that the woman would not find a suitable gown for Lurina. But soon she was holding out to Grace a long-sleeved satin gown that rose without a break to a high V at the throat. The dress zipped down the back.

  Grace drew a breath. “That’s lovely.” Soft to the touch and a beautiful sheen, how could Lurina not love this gown? “I’ll need to take it with me to show to my friend. I’ll be glad to leave a deposit, or the full price of the gown if you’d prefer, but if she doesn’t like it, I’ll have to return it.”

  “I’m sorry. We don’t let our gowns out of the shop to be tried on.”

  “It isn’t possible for her to come.”

  “I’m sorry, then.” She began to replace the gown among the others on the rack.

  “Are you the manager?” Grace asked. Be polite but insistent, she told herself, but being insistent wasn’t easy for her. She should have asked Hannah, or even Amelia to come with her.

  “I am the manager.”

  “Are you the owner, also?”

  “No. Mrs. Lerner owns the shop, but she’s not here.”

  “Does she live in town?” Grace asked, trembling inside.

  “Well, yes, she does, but I’m telling you, it’s against store policy.” The saleswoman pushed the rack of wedding gowns back through a curtained doorway, and returned rubbing her hands as if she had just washed them and had used a hot blower that left them damp.

  Grace sat properly on the tufted sofa, knees together, shoulders back, purse clasped tightly in her lap. Her throat could not have been drier if she’d awakened from sleep and been breathing through her mouth.

  “Would you be kind enough to phone and ask Mrs. Lerner if I might have a word with her, or make an appointment to see her another day, soon? I do like the gown, and I think my friend will also, but you never know, when you’re shopping for someone else.”

  Unsmiling, the saleswoman walked briskly to the front of the store and reached behind the high marble-topped counter for the phone. She turned her back to Grace, who heard not a word being said. Then the woman swung about and looked at Grace. “Mrs. Lerner wants to know who you are, and who you’re buying a gown for.”

  Grace lifted her chin and took the extended phone. “Hello, Mrs. Lerner. My name is Mrs. Grace Singleton. The gown is for Miss Lurina Masterson. We live in Covington in Madison County, and I own a tearoom there. The bride-to-be, Lurina Masterson, is an elderly lady, also from Covington. She’s quite frail, and doesn’t leave her home much.”

  Out in the street, beyond the wedding dresses displayed in the window, Grace could see traffic backed up and pedestrians crossing between the cars.

  The owner’s voice was kind, well modulated, and definitely northern. “I can see your problem. How old is the lady?”

  “Quite old as a matter of fact, and she�
�s never been married. It’s a major happening. Two elderly people from local families.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Ellie Lerner said. “Tell you what. You choose two or three gowns that you think might work, and I’ll bring them out myself. We can see what your friend likes and order in her size.”

  Grace felt the tension drain from her body. In fact she felt weak-kneed. “You’ll bring them yourself? How very kind of you. Thank you so much.”

  “Give my saleslady directions, and a phone number. Put her on now, will you?”

  A moment later the saleswoman hung up, all smiles, and they returned to the rack to select the three dresses that Ellie Lerner would bring with her to Covington.

  On February 21, 1999, Ellie Lerner’s blue Buick sedan crossed the old wooden bridge and pulled to a stop at the farmhouse. Grace, Hannah, a silent and withdrawn Amelia, and Mike waited with Lurina on the porch. Grace ran down to welcome her. Ellie Lerner exited her car, and circled for a view of the land, the hills, the old farmhouse, the women, and Mike on the porch. “A well-kept secret, this Covington. Amazing, out of a storybook.”

  “Thank you so much for coming. Lurina Masterson is the one in the rocker on the porch.” Grace did not point. “The other ladies are my housemates, Hannah and Amelia. Mike is Amelia’s friend. Lurina’s all nerves.”

  “The other ladies are your housemates, you say?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Sometime, I’d like to hear how you ladies met, and what brought you to Covington. I’m widowed. My husband died shortly after we moved here and opened the shop.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said.

  “It was hard, still is,” Ellie said. “My kids live in New York and California. Sometimes I wonder why I stay here.”

  Carefully, they lifted three plastic bags containing the gowns from the back of the car. Ellie moved gracefully up the steps, all smiles. “You must be Lurina Masterson. I am Eleanor Lerner, Ellie. I’m so pleased to meet you, and delighted for the opportunity to show you our gowns.”