Under the Skin

by Vicki Lane

  I left them on the porch chattering away as Gloria pumped Amanda for more stories of the designers she’d worked for. I was lost amid the welter of names—Pinar, Donatella, Tani, Samil—but happy that Gloria and her son’s girlfriend seemed to be enjoying each other’s company at last.

  A lot had changed with Joss’s departure. Gloria, instead of darting off into Asheville every day on some pretext or other, began to relax, ever so slightly, into the routine of the farm—at least, the less strenuous, cleaner bits of that routine. She seemed to enjoy making wreaths and I was happy for her help and her company. We spent hours in the comparative cool of the fragrant workshop, filling in the blanks of our respective lives for each other and learning to enjoy and appreciate each other, warts and all—a quantum leap for both of us.

  “Let me fix dinner tonight. I’ll come with you to the grocery store and pick up some salmon,” Gloria said Thursday morning, as we talked over our plans for the day while I made out my grocery list. “Salmon is one thing I know how to cook. And you’ve got asparagus in the fridge. That and some little new potatoes—what do you think?”

  I thought it would be wonderful and told her so. Though I’m fond of cooking, it’s a true luxury to eat a meal I had nothing to do with.

  “Oh good!” she exclaimed. “And we can take my Mini. The poor thing’s probably feeling neglected.”

  Cocking an eyebrow at me, she went on. “It should be safe now, right? Now that all the baddies are accounted for.”

  I hoped they were.

  Phillip had told me only the night before that Joss’s arrival in the little town near the coast where his parents lived had been confirmed. Even better was the news about the Eyebrow who, as Phillip said, in best detective fiction style, had “sung like a canary.”

  “Those outstanding warrants I told you about—there were enough charges to keep him off the streets for a very long time. Finally his lawyer convinced him that a little cooperation might shorten his sentence and pretty soon they couldn’t shut him up. Evidently he and Gloria’s husband had a falling-out so the Eyebrow decided to get even by making Gloria think Jerry was trying to do her in.”

  Suddenly things began to fall into place. “So that’s it! She was never in any real danger—because if something had happened to her, Jerry would have inherited her money. What the Eyebrow wanted was for her to leave Jerry—”

  “And it was working. But now that the Eyebrow’s looking at major time, he’s spilling every last detail of Jerry’s business dealings. I got a real feeling old Jerry’s going to end up a guest of the state too. Probably one of those country club facilities for white-collar criminals. From what my buddy down in Tampa could tell me, Jerry stayed clear of the rough stuff—defrauding widows and orphans was more his style.”

  I had to admit Gloria’s Mini was a hoot. Spinning along so low to the ground was quite different from my big Jeep. Though, as I quickly reminded myself, the Mini would be useless for my usual shopping trips which generally involved a week’s worth of groceries and several fifty-pound bags of one kind of feed or another.

  As we scooted past Miss Birdie’s house, Gloria glanced at the tidy yard and the immaculate little garden patch where Birdie herself was wielding a hoe, scratching up invisible weeds. Always alert to every passing vehicle, the little woman turned her head in its protective sunbonnet toward the road and raised her long-handled hoe in a salute.

  “She looks like something from another time,” Gloria remarked as we returned the greeting and sped on toward the bridge. “I’d like to go visit her again. You know, seeing her just now, it reminded me of this workshop I did once about the Feminine Divine. Miss Birdie is like—and don’t laugh at me, Lizzy—the Mother Goddess. ”

  “No arguments from me,” I said, remembering the instant connection that had happened between my sister and Miss Birdie. “Tell you what: Birdie loves all sorts of exotic fruit but won’t buy it for herself. Let’s get her a fresh pineapple at the store—we can stop in on our way back.”

  And lay our offering at the feet of the Mother. The thought sprang unbidden but I resisted saying it out loud, lest Glory think I was laughing at her. Somehow, it sounded entirely appropriate.

  As we turned onto the bridge across the French Broad, I caught sight of my old friend the great blue heron winging his stately way down the river.

  “Pull over and stop for a moment, Glory. I want to see where he’s going. They probably have a nest somewhere nearby.” I was straining my eyes to follow the heart-stoppingly lovely bird—the immense wings, pale gray bordered in deeper steely blue-gray, the elegant curve of the neck, and the sweetly absurd trailing orange legs.

  We leaned on the concrete railing, enjoying the fresh breeze, the sunlight glinting on the fast-moving water. Far down the river a gaggle of rubber rafts were negotiating a series of rocks and rapids called the Maze. A few squeals drifted back to us.

  “They sound like they’re having fun.” Gloria’s eyes were hidden by her sunglasses but her voice was wistful. “Sometimes I wonder … if Mother hadn’t—”

  She stopped and we both turned at the approach of a work-worn black farm truck that slowed and then pulled over to park in front of the Mini. I took a deep breath as I saw Harice Tyler get out and come toward us, a lazy smile on his face.

  “Lizzy!” Gloria’s whisper was full of alarm. She had stiffened at the sight of Harice, who, in farm-dirty work clothes, was, I’ll admit, enough to start the Deliverance banjos playing. I could only guess what Glory might be thinking. And she didn’t even know about the snakes.

  “You all right, Miz Goodweather?” Harice spoke to me but his eyes were on Gloria, no doubt taking in her sleeveless blouse, bare legs, gold jewelry—all forbidden to the women of the Holiness Church he pastored. “Thought maybe that little roller skate you uns is driving might have give out.”

  When I assured him that we didn’t have car trouble, he gave Glory’s legs one last odd look—disapproving approval?—and sauntered back to his truck. I watched him go, wondering why I had ever imagined myself attracted to him. The words of the old hymn I once was blind but now I see formed on my lips as I watched that conscious swagger of his that went over so well with the female part of his congregation.

  As he pulled out and headed toward Bear Tree Creek, Gloria released the breath she’d been holding.

  “Who was that? Those eyes! Clean him up and he could—”

  “That,” I said, looking down the river again, “was the pastor of a snake-handling church in Tennessee. Dang! I should have introduced you—he’s between wives just now.”

  “You uns come up in the shade and get you a chair. Aye, law, what have you got in that big poke?”

  Birdie’s black and white dog Pup came wagging to greet us as we approached the porch where my neighbor was enjoying the virtuous rest of one with laundry drying on the line, a freshly mown yard, and a weedless garden patch.

  “Gloria brought you a pineapple and some mangoes, Miss Birdie. If you don’t care, I’ll take them to the kitchen and cut them up for you while you and Glory visit.”

  “Well, what about that!” Birdie peered into the brown paper bag. “You know I do like them pineapples. My, I can smell it just as good … and these here—I like them things awful good. They put me in mind of a peach but they ain’t peaches. What did you call ’em—something like banjo, ain’t it? Why you girls is like to spoil me!”

  In Birdie’s cheerful kitchen I tracked down a cutting board and located a knife sharp enough to deal with the pineapple, as well as a couple of plastic containers to put the fruit into. As I stood by the sink, I could hear snatches of the conversation on the porch, just beyond the kitchen window.

  “… been thinking about what you told me … your babies that died … your angels …”

  Gloria was telling Miss Birdie about her own lost baby—the stillborn girl she’d never seen. I could hear Birdie’s comforting murmur and it seemed to me that Gloria was crying very softly.

&n
bsp; “… Honey, just you go ahead … do you good …”

  By the time I’d dealt with the pineapple and turned to the mangoes, Gloria seemed to have recovered herself and was questioning Birdie about the “angels,” as Birdie referred to her dead children.

  I leaned a little closer to the window.

  “… talk to them—and seems at times they talk to me … Luther didn’t believe in such … a comfort to me … like praying.”

  When I’d put the sliced-up fruit into the refrigerator and cleaned up the mess, I returned to the sink to wash my hands.

  “… I will, Miss Birdie,” I heard Gloria say, her voice filled with an eager joy. “I will …”

  Chapter 33

  Retail Therapy

  Saturday, June 9

  Saturday was upon us and I found myself on my way to a tour of Asheville’s most expensive shops, in search of a wedding dress—or rather, a dress for an unsophisticated bride of mature years, embarking on her second marriage in an informal outdoor setting. I hate to shop, and do it so seldom that I always find myself suffering severe sticker shock at the prices.

  For Gloria, on the other hand, shopping is like swimming in her chosen element. Despite the fact that she had been in Asheville only a few times, she was far more familiar with the shopping opportunities than I had ever been and a few days ago had laid out a plan of attack encompassing the various places that might have the sort of dress she deemed suitable.

  “There’s a wonderful place just a few doors down from Nigel’s that I want to try. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to just pop into Nigel’s for a quick shampoo and comb-out—my hair gets so out of control when I do it myself for too long. It wouldn’t take over half an hour—forty-five minutes at the most. Surely you might have some shopping you could do while I was busy.”

  I had started to protest and then remembered my favorite downtown bookstore-slash-café near the library. I could while away a bit of time there—as well as pick up a few assorted books for birthday gifts.

  “Sure, Glory!” the new, ever-accommodating Elizabeth had said. “Go on and make your appointment.”

  I insisted on an early start, having learned that weekends in Asheville tended toward the hectic at times. Recently, it seemed there was always a festival of some sort going on—Bele Chere, Goombay … I had no idea if something was up this weekend but with June came tourists and increased traffic.

  We were passing by the Dewell Hill church, heading for the highway that would take us to the Interstate and on to Asheville, when Gloria slowed and nodded toward the graveyard that surrounded the old church.

  “When I went with Amanda yesterday to see the herb garden she’d just installed at that B and B, on the way back I got her to stop here. Miss Birdie told me the other day how there used to be a grave up on a bank near the road that had a dollhouse built over it. She said if you looked through the little window, inside you could see the dolls sitting at a table like they were having a tea party. I wanted to see if I could find where it had been so Amanda and I walked around looking at all the gravestones there were for little children.”

  I opened my mouth to say that Birdie had told me that same story years ago and I too had gone looking for the dollhouse grave. But then I realized that this was Gloria’s story. And how badly she needed to tell it.

  Since our visit to Miss Birdie, my sister had been in high spirits, almost the same euphoria she’d exhibited during the days she believed Joss was her lost child. I’d hoped she would tell me just what it was that Birdie had said or done that had lifted her spirits so but she hadn’t. And I hadn’t wanted to pry.

  But now the story was emerging.

  “… so many children’s graves, some with little lambs. Do you remember, Aunt Dodie said that the stone she put up for my Dana has a lamb on it?”

  Her eyes were swimming with tears now, but Gloria brushed them away, careless of her mascara.

  “Anyway, I’ve made up my mind. After the wedding, I’m going to go stay with Aunt Dodie for a while. I’d like her to tell me whatever she can about my baby—my Dana. Dodie actually saw her, you know … She said she was beautiful … And then I’ll visit Dana’s grave … and talk to her … the way Birdie talks to her lost babies. She says it gives her healing.”

  It took a moment for what my sister had said to register—and then I didn’t know what to say other than, “Well, Glory …”

  Gloria sniffed and fumbled in the side pocket for a tissue. “I know … I could talk to her anywhere. If Giles were still here … But he was just in North Carolina for the weekend and, according to his website, he’s going to Australia for several months. Oh, when I think it might have been Dana trying to speak to me and then that crazy Joss interrupted …”

  She dabbed at her eyes again. “But it doesn’t matter. First I need to go back to New Bern, apologize to Aunt Dodie, and thank her for taking care of my baby’s grave. Then I’ll spend some time, just with Dana … Turo might join me there … We’ve been talking every night.”

  As she continued, it became apparent that once again, Gloria was moving on: putting her current relationship behind her and preparing to plunge again. She’d evidently been in touch with her friend Eleanor who’d confirmed what Phillip had been told—gone him one better, in fact. Jerry had been arrested. Rumor was that, even had Gloria been willing to throw resources into his defense, no lawyer, no matter how good, was going to get Jerry out of the tangle of fraud, extortion, and who knows what other felonious monkey business he’d been up to.

  And Arturo, Gloria mentioned with elaborate casualness, was a widower now, and had been for some years …

  “What about this Brice guy you were talking about—what is he, a cosmetic surgeon? I thought that was someone you were interested in?”

  My question was innocent; when she’d first arrived Gloria had hardly let a day go by without speaking to Brice and she’d dropped some rather broad hints about their relationship—past and future.

  I looked over to see that she had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She felt my gaze and lifted her chin.

  “I was never really serious about Brice. He was fun to flirt with … but I knew he carried on that way with a lot of women. And anyway—”

  She pulled down the sunglasses that had been perched on top of her head. “Well, Eleanor had all kinds of news for me. Along with the latest about Jerry, she also told me about Brice and his receptionist. It’s almost funny: Brice used to brag that he never fooled around with anyone but married women because he wanted to stay single. Evidently he messed up and got his little receptionist pregnant—The wedding was last week.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “Oh, Glory …” I began, but she overrode whatever lame condolences I might have been about to offer.

  “No biggie, Lizzy!” Her voice was suspiciously bright but she turned and grinned at me. “Let’s shop!”

  “We’ll go out to Biltmore Village first,” she explained, swinging the Mini off the Interstate onto the Tunnel Road exit. “Bravissimo might have just the sort of striking, arty-looking dress that would suit you. And there are one or two other places … If we don’t find anything, then we can hit downtown—and there are always the malls …”

  Bravissimo had that clarity of perfection—shining glass, subtle lighting, gleaming metal and wood—that warns the prospective shopper if they need to look at the price tags, they’re in the wrong place. But Gloria waved aside my feeble objections.

  “This is my treat, Lizzy. You look around and so will I. The dressing rooms are over there.”

  Following her instructions, I avoided looking at the price tags and let myself be seduced by gorgeous fabrics and rich colors. Some of the styles seemed a little bizarre but for the most part the garments depended on perfect cut and simplicity. So, ignoring wistful thoughts of that skirt and blouse languishing in my closet, I picked out a garment that reminded me of the first leaves of spring and took it to the dressing room.

/>   I was indulging in a slight preen in the three-way mirror when Gloria appeared in the doorway, shaking her head as she studied my reflection.

  “No, Lizzy, that one doesn’t do a thing for you—unless you want to blend in with the shrubbery. You’re going to be outside in the garden—what you need is a color that will really pop against the backdrop of plants. Something like coral, maybe, or that blue your garden benches are painted.”

  She pursed her lips and considered. “It’s a pretty dress but it makes you look like you have jaundice. Green just isn’t your color. Go on and take it off and I’ll bring you some others.”

  I fell in love with the third dress that she brought me. A high-waisted, deep periwinkle blue linen bodice from which fell graceful folds of a silky Liberty cotton. The skirt gave the impression of an even deeper solid blue but on closer examination revealed printed figures of purple on a blue background. It was perfect. Comfortable, becoming, timeless—very much the way I hoped Phillip’s and my marriage would be.

  “Are you sure? We could have them hold it and look at some other places.” Gloria was clearly disappointed to have our treasure hunt end so soon but I was adamant.

  “This is it, Glory. I really love it.” I was shamelessly admiring myself in the mirror and imagining what Phillip would say when he saw me in such splendor.

  Gloria put her head on one side. “It does look like you, Lizzy. Just a little hint of a milkmaid … but quite becoming.” Her face brightened. “Now that I know what you’ll be wearing, I’ll look for something for me. I haven’t seen anything here that’s what I have in mind, but we can buzz by a few more places here in the Village. And then that wonderful place right in Asheville not far from Nigel’s salon …”

  She glanced at her watch. “My appointment with Nigel is for three-fifteen. If we hurry, we’ll even have time for lunch.”

  XI~Nellie Bly

  The Mountain Park Hotel~Friday, May 20, 1887