by Mary Monroe
“What kind of sorting?”
“Again, I don’t know. I imagine all the clutter stored up in the attic, and dividing things up from this house now that she’s living at the beach house. I suppose she wants to sell this house. Hasn’t she talked to you about this?”
His face clouded and he studied her with a question in his eyes that she couldn’t make out. “No,” he replied slowly. “No, she hasn’t.”
“I believe she—”
“So how do you like the place?” he asked, interrupting her and extending his arm toward the living room.
Cara was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject but she went along with it, concluding that Palmer was upset that he’d not been consulted.
“The place looks quite different,” she replied, following him into the sunroom. “It looks much, I don’t know…younger. Cheerful, even. The decorator was brilliant.”
He beamed. “Julia gets all the credit and it’d be real nice if you said something to her about it. She slaved over every detail. And I don’t mind telling you I thought I’d go cross-eyed looking at all the fabric swatches she brought home for curtains or bedspreads or cushions—you name it. And the fringe! You never saw so damn much fringe in all your life.”
“I’ll tell her. She did a marvelous job.” Then looking at her drink she asked, “And Mama didn’t mind the changes?”
He looked at her queerly. “Mind? Hell no, why should she mind?”
“I don’t know. She lived in the house for so long….”
“No, no, she loves it,” he said with boisterous confidence. “And Julia loves fixing it up. And I don’t care one way or the other, so everybody’s happy. But I don’t figure this traditional stuff is your style. You prefer that modern, spare look, I hear.”
Cara’s gaze swept the gracious rooms and she wondered if that was still true. “Perhaps,” she replied, then caught his eye and smiled wickedly. “But it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
“Well, you haven’t changed your mind about Frogmore Stew, I hope. Man, oh, man—I’ve a big pot out back with your name on it. Should just about be ready. Julia!” he called out.
She poked her head around the corner. “Yes, honey?”
“Get my sister something to nibble on while I tend to the stew. I’ll be ready to serve in a few minutes.” He turned to face Cara with a wink. “Made it special for you.”
Cara felt a flush of pleasure that he’d remembered it was her favorite after all and went to join Julia in the kitchen to help serve the feast.
They sat together in the raspberry-colored dining room while tall white candles glimmered around them and the ornate crystal chandelier glowed like the moon above. They spoke of old times. Or, for the most part, Palmer talked and she sat back and listened to him at the head of the long, mahogany table as he recounted funny tales and anecdotes of the happier moments they’d shared, both in the city house and at the beach. He had acquired their father’s gift of storytelling. It was a skill with words taught to young Southern boys that improved with age. But only a few inherited the real talent for drawing out choice details, for turning the colorful phrase and for nailing a characterization with such precision that the listener could see the person as readily as if he or she were standing before them in the flesh. The listeners leaned forward as Palmer brought to life old memories. He seemed to relive them as he spoke and brought Cara and Lovie to the past along with him. They each punctuated the telling with comments of their own.
Initially, Toy had tried to act bored but she, too, got sucked in. Cara caught glimpses of her sitting wide-eyed as she and the children gobbled up the stories as quickly as the steaming shrimp, sausage and corn. At times Palmer had them laughing so hard the children had to cover their mouths to keep the food in. Even Toy relaxed enough to crack a smile and let a laugh escape.
As the evening drew late, however, and more wine consumed, Palmer’s cheeks became flushed and his colorful, silken stories became fringed with bitterness. He touched on the darker side of their jangled-up histories and an uncomfortable tension crept over them. When he pushed back his chair to stand, the sigh of relief from the women was almost audible.
“I think we should open up another bottle, don’t you?” Palmer asked in a long drawl, lifting the empty bottles of wine from the table. “Y’all wait here and I’ll be right back.”
As soon as he left the room, Lovie shot a loaded glance at Julia.
She immediately rose. “Come along, children. Hurry up and kiss your grandmama and Aunt Cara good-night. Quick like bunnies!”
There was a bustle of smooches and tender declarations of love and then Julia excused herself to put her babies to bed.
Toy took the cue. “I’m really tired, Miss Lovie. Would y’all mind if I stretch out on the couch a bit and put my feet up?”
Lovie appeared relieved. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Watch a little TV if you like. But don’t get too comfy. We’ll be leaving presently.”
Soon after Toy left, Palmer returned to the room dusting off another bottle of wine.
“Son, I think it’s time to call it a night,” Lovie said, placing her napkin on the table. “It’s been a marvelous day. I can’t thank you enough.”
Palmer stopped dead in his tracks. “No, no, don’t go,” he replied, a petulant pleading in his voice. He brought the bottle to the table and began to uncork it. “It’s the shank of the evening and we never see you anymore, Mama.” Then, as though he just noticed, he looked around and said, “Where did the children go?”
“Julia put them to bed,” Lovie replied.
He scowled and his eyes flashed with anger. “Now why did that fool woman hurry them off?” He took a step and craned his neck toward the staircase. “Julia!” he bellowed.
Cara stared at her brother with shock.
“Yes?” They heard her voice from upstairs, sounding a tad too cheerful.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” he called back.
“I’m putting the babies to bed. It’s late.”
“Hush now, Palmer,” Lovie said in an easy, calming voice. “You sound like a fishmonger shouting across the room like that. Let her put those darlings to bed.”
“They can go to bed any ol’ time. I want them to spend more time with you.”
Cara stiffened at the ugly and too familiar sight of a man turned belligerent from too much wine.
“They’ve had a full day and the awnings were dropping over those precious eyes. They’re young and need to go to bed. And I’m old and need to go to bed as well. Besides, I’m only a short drive away. You can bring my grandbabies to visit any time you wish.”
Palmer wagged his head, frowning. “It’s not the same with you gone. They need their grandmother’s influence. Julia’s a fine girl and all, but let’s face it, she doesn’t have your breeding.”
Cara eyed him sharply for shaming his wife in front of his mother and sister.
“Why’d you leave us, anyway?” he droned on. “This will always be your home as much as mine.”
“How grand of you to say so,” Cara said testily.
“Well, it is!” he replied in strong defense. “I never wanted Mama to leave.” He poured more wine into Cara’s glass, spilling a few drops. Then almost in a pout he added, “She insisted.”
“That’s true,” Lovie replied in a cajoling tone while placing her hand over her glass. “I know you wanted me to stay and I’m touched, but honestly, I couldn’t be happier than right where I am. I’ve always loved my little beach house.”
“You always loved this house,” Palmer replied, filling his own glass.
Cara and Lovie exchanged a worried glance.
“But since you brought it up,” he said, sitting down and getting comfortable, “let’s talk about this sensibly.” He repositioned himself in his chair and placed his elbows squarely on the table. Raising his eyes to Lovie’s he said in a congenial tone, “Okay, here it is, plain and simple. Mama, I want you to come bac
k here to live with us. I don’t like you so far out there on the island. I want you right here where I can keep an eye on you.”
“I’m quite content where I am.”
“In that ol’ place? First off, that place is a firetrap. It’s barely standing. Hell, one good wind will take that cottage straight off from its foundation.”
“That little cottage has withstood more hurricanes than I can count,” Lovie replied in ringing defense.
Palmer put up his hand. “Maintenance is just one thing. Hiring this girl when you could be living here with us is another. But those are small potatoes compared to the whopping hit we took from the recent tax assessment. The value of that little piece of land has skyrocketed in the past few years.” His eyes gleamed and he leaned forward on his elbows with import. “That worthless little cottage sits on prime ocean real estate. There’s not much of that left on the island anymore, and you know that’s true. The new tax bill made my blood pressure shoot sky-high.”
Lovie seemed agitated and she leaned toward her son. “But Palmer, didn’t you apply for the tax cap? I told you to do that for me last December when I moved out there.”
“I did, but it was still a sizable increase. Your money is largely invested, Mama, and with the stock market the way it is your cash flow is severely limited. It just doesn’t make sense to hold on to that place any longer.”
“I don’t need much.”
“That’s not the point, Mama. Now, don’t you get up on your high horse. Hear me out. I did my own investigating and I know for a fact that no matter how sorry a shape that cottage is in, it’s worth at least seven, maybe eight hundred thousand. Maybe even more. See, the thing is, there’s those three choice lots sitting across from you. Two of them were gifted to the Coastal Conservancy as open parkland forever.”
Cara’s brows rose. She didn’t know that. If so, that would add a great deal to the value of her mother’s site.
“Now the way I see it,” Palmer continued, “if I can buy that third lot that’s right smack in front of your place, then between them we’d have two prime lots. I could build two houses on spec, situating one on the ocean in such a way as to guarantee ocean views from the other. The land would be priceless then. Worth millions.”
“The land is already priceless to me,” Lovie said in a quiet voice.
“Why, sure, Mama, I know you love it. But we should strike while the iron’s hot. We need to buy that land before someone else does.”
“Do you know who owns the third lot?” Cara asked.
Palmer shook his head. “No, but I’ve got my people on it. It’s only a matter of time till I find out.”
“So, I gather you want me to sell now?” Lovie asked.
There was something about her mother’s tone that alerted Cara, an iron strength hidden in the question. She glanced at Lovie’s face. It was solemn and pale. Palmer’s face, in contrast, was beet red and his eyes were alive with the look of a bloodhound on the scent.
“I think we should talk about it. See what our options are.”
Lovie turned to face Cara. “Do you want me to sell?”
Cara didn’t expect the question. “It’s not up to me.”
“Why are you asking her?” Palmer interjected with heat.
Cara bristled. “As a member of the family, I have a right to at least an opinion.”
“A right? Hell, after twenty years’ absence you feel you still have a right?”
“Cara,” her mother said and her tone drew Cara’s attention back. “Do you want me to sell?”
Cara pursed her lips, considering. One of her strengths in business was her ability to remove herself from an equation and think objectively. When she replied, her voice was calm and decisive. “If what Palmer says is true and those two lots are deeded as a park, then your land is like gold in the bank. It’s safe. And money isn’t the issue, or it shouldn’t be.” She looked at Palmer. “If I recollect, Mama is invested in blue-chip stocks. If they go under, the country goes under. So,” she concluded, turning again to her mother, “as far as I’m concerned, you should do what makes you happy, Mama. It’s your land. Your life. Enjoy it.”
Lovie’s face eased into a soft smile and her eyes seemed to express relief and even, perhaps, hope.
“And you don’t have any interest in the beach house yourself?” Palmer asked.
It was an ugly question and Cara was sorry to hear it. She looked at her mother. Lovie was leaning forward, intently focused on her answer.
“No,” Cara replied honestly. “It belongs to Mama. I hope she’ll live there happily for a very long time.”
Palmer leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his belly. “Oh, do you? Well, I think it’s odd that you come home now, after all these years, with a sudden interest in sorting through this house and the beach property.”
It was the drink talking and she didn’t rise to the bait. “I’ve told you, Palmer, I’m home because Mama asked me to come. Let me put any fears you have of my being a mercenary to rest. I’m well-off, Palmer, not rich, but comfortable. I’ve always been able to fend for myself, as you well know.” She leaned back in her own chair and with a wry smile added, “I’ve made my money the old-fashioned way—I earned it. I don’t need anything from Mama.”
“Honey,” Palmer replied with a long drawl, “I made my money the real old-fashioned way. I inherited it.” He laughed and managed to diffuse the tension between them, though it was still there, simmering under the surface. He turned again to Lovie, his face appearing sincere. “Mama, be sensible. Aside from the financial picture, we have to be realistic about your health. As pretty as you are, you’re not getting any younger. It’s just not safe for you to be living out there by yourself. We’re downtown. Your doctors are downtown. If you should have some sort of emergency, you’d be too far from real help. What kind of a son would I be to leave you on your own at this point in your life?”
“I appreciate your concern,” she replied stiffly, “but I’m not alone. The Turtle Ladies look out for me and I’ve Toy to see to my everyday needs.” Lovie seemed to regret mention of the girl’s name because she closed her mouth quickly.
Palmer seized on this. “That’s another thing! What do we know about that girl? Why, she could be robbing you blind.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake…” Lovie said, shaking her head in her palm.
“Even if she’s not rifling through the silver, what kind of help can you get from a girl who’s so far pregnant she can barely walk? How can she take care of you? She’s barely old enough to take care of herself. I mean, hell,” Palmer slammed his hand on the table. “I’m not sure I want my children associating with her kind. I don’t even want her in my house. Who knows where she’s from? What kind of an example is she setting for Linnea?”
Cara looked over her shoulder, wondering if Toy had heard, doubting she could not have what with the way Palmer was shouting. She waited for her mother’s stinging defense, but when she turned to see her slump-shouldered again, she knew none was forthcoming and felt an old disappointment rise up. When she could hold out no longer, she burst out in a voice that had stopped boardrooms cold in Chicago, “That’s enough, Palmer! You don’t even know this girl but you condemn her because she’s pregnant? Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? I seem to remember an incident years back…”
His face mottled but he had the decency to duck his head.
“So, you do remember,” she said, not dragging out the old scandal. She knew he was remembering years back to the high school girl he took out to their daddy’s hunting lodge every chance he could. It ended in the predictable manner, money passed hands and Palmer got off lucky. Which was more than she could say for the girl involved. Cara couldn’t remember her name and she’d wager Palmer couldn’t either. Some things never changed, she thought with a sigh. It was always the girl that paid.
There was an awkward silence during which Palmer downed his glass and Cara took a deep breath. As far as she was
concerned, the evening was over.
“I think we’ve tripped down memory lane enough for one evening,” she said. “Mama has decided to stay at the cottage and has chosen this young lady as her companion. And for what it’s worth, from what I can tell Toy is a decent, hardworking young woman and she’s doing a fine job. Her very best, which is more than I can say for myself these past few days.” She turned to Lovie. “I’m sorry, Mama, that I’ve been such a slug lately but this fine meal and repartee seem to have revived me. I’m remembering exactly who I am and why I left here in the first place. Palmer, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’ve become every bit as much of a heavy-handed chauvinist pig as Daddy ever was. I hardly know you.”
Palmer looked temporarily broadsided, then his expression hardened. When he spoke again, his voice turned low and icy despite the charm of his smile. “I’m sorry if your opinion of me has diminished, but the fact is, dear sister, you’ve been out of the picture for some time now, living your own kind of lifestyle, taking care of your own business. It fell to me to take care of our mother.”
“You treat her like a child!” she exploded. “You’re not her husband, you’re her son. Show her more respect. It’s her money, after all. Mama is perfectly capable of handling her own finances. I think you enjoy the control you exercise over her. Just like Daddy did.”
Palmer’s face froze for a moment, and despite the truth in her statement, she realized a momentary pang for him, remembering the boy he once was. Then she watched his face ease into a starchy smile.
“I’m just being a dutiful son. Ask her.”
Cara turned to her mother.
“You know that I don’t have a mind for figures,” she replied in a distant voice, appearing to shrink within herself.
“You compare me to Daddy?” Palmer said, returning to the sore point. “Well, maybe I am. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, isn’t that what they say? But say what you will, the fact is, while you were in Chicago, I was here, dealing with his reeking alcoholism and his plain cussed meanness. After he died, Julia had to paint the house just to get the stink of bourbon and cigars out of it. I was here with Mama, watching out for her, and we both know I’m not just talking about money.” His eyes glared as he worked himself up into a state of agitation. “He left the business to me, not you. He left the estate to me, not you. Why? Not because he loved me more, we all know that,” he said bitterly. “But because you turned your back on him, on all of this, and shoved it down his throat. He never forgave you for that.”